


In The Heat Of The Moment

by Scarlet_Nin



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: "You're not my Dad" line drop, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bro Time Is Making Sure Their Brother Doesn'T Accidently Cause Another Apocalypse, Delirium, Fever, Gen, Good Sibling Luther Hargreeves, Hallucinations, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Klaus Hargreeves Needs A Hug, Klaus Has No Fucks Left To Give, Lest Of All To Himself, Mausoleums don't make good daycares Reggie, Not Season/Series 02 Compliant, Nothing haunts your ass like childhood trauma, Protective Diego Hargreeves, Protective Number Five | The Boy, Some Quality Bro Time, The Mausoleum (Umbrella Academy), Threatening Hotel Staff, Trauma Reveal, Two Dumbasses One Tiny Feral Gremlin and A Judging Ghost Play Nurse, Vanya didn't cause the apocalypse in Season 1, Wholesome family content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:33:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27740812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scarlet_Nin/pseuds/Scarlet_Nin
Summary: They thought Vanya would be the most dangerous sibling to look out for when sick. Given that she’s nearly brought the house down in a fit of temper and was the most likely cause for the apocalypse. Blowing shit up every time she sneezes would be a nightmare to deal with.“It’s Klaus,” Diego scoffs, rolling his eyes. “What’s the worst thing he can do aside from puking on us?”Hours later, Five, covered in blood, would turn wild, furious eyes onto his brother and say, “How about summoning the walk of the dead, asshole?”Or, Klaus gets sick, randomly summons ghosts and a very exasperated Ben, trying to fight of nightmares while his brothers are stuck in a literal one trying to avert another apocalypse.
Relationships: Klaus Hargreeves & Number Five | The Boy & Ben Hargreeves & Luther Hargreeves & Diego Hargreeves
Comments: 164
Kudos: 726





	1. Is it too hot in here or is that just me?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OverlyObsessed223](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OverlyObsessed223/gifts).



> This story is dedicated to OverlyObsessed223 whose stories never fail to make me smile and inspire me to write! Seriously, if you guys haven't checked out their stories, go and read them now. 100/10 would recommend <3

Number Four was a sickly child, though not in the traditional sense. He certainly looked the part for the role, lanky and pale, like a harsh breeze might knock him over at any moment’s notice. A running joke Diego used to tease him with, nudging him in the ribs to prove how little he ate. Hell, Five actually let him lean on him after missions, worried he’d kiss the ground in front of the press otherwise. From what, Klaus’ wasn’t sure, considering he rarely did anything physical taxing during missions.

Despite all the evidence pointing towards a shitty immune system, the only sickness Klaus fought as a child was his mind. Ghosts fucked with his head more often than not, leaving him on the brink of sleep deprivation and insanity. Food became tasteless, downright nasty with ghosts leaning over his shoulder, dripping blood over his scrambled eggs like ketchup.

Sadly, long-term drug use had its drawbacks. Namely in the newfound fragility of his health.

Figures if the apocalypse, withdrawal, and yearlong drug abuse couldn’t kill him, a bad case of flu will do its job better than Cha-Cha and Hazel ever could.

“Would you zip it already?” Klaus groans into his pillow. “Take your complaints up with the little Girl not with me, how about that? Pretty sure she has the time to squeeze in an appointment.”

The wailing continues.

His head throbs at the noise, his fairy lights not helping. The brightness hurts his eyes whenever he cracks them open beyond an inch, but the thought of laying in the dark kicks his heartrate up a few notches in unmistakable fear. Better to leave them on than have a panic attack.

Twisting onto his back, he coughs sharply, blankets half kicked off to prevent himself from getting tangled up in them.

“No wonder someone killed you,” he croaks out to the ghost in the corner of his room. “And people say _I’m_ annoying. Clearly, they haven’t heard your voice. I swear, the opera guy on the third floor sounds better.”

The lady doesn’t stop howling about the woes of her broken mirage. It seems she’s not taking offense to being compared to a tone-deaf ghost, who lost both ears in a car accident. She should. The last time that guy hit anything, lest of all a note, it was the car that killed him.

_“How could he?”_ she cries, pacing up and down in front of his window, getting blood all over his carpet. _“One year and a half, and he throws it all away? For what? His newest fling!? Can you believe what he did to me? I gave him everything and this is how he repays me? He needs to pay!”_

She doesn’t spare him a glance, choosing to glare out of the window like she can see her ex-husband get it on with his newest lover down in the alleyway near the dumpster. Peeping on the living like every other ghost besides her does.

Noisy bitch.

_“Don’t sell yourself short. Nobody has you beat for top spot when it comes to annoying the shit out of someone. Trust me, I’d know.”_

Ben’s hand hovering over his forehead feels heavenly. Cool and soft. He couldn’t ever imagine a ghost’s hand to be so comforting.

“You truly know how to make a girl feel special.”

Klaus sighs in relief, eyes falling shut to soak up the pleasant chill. Ben huffs in annoyance, probably rolling his eyes in an albeit fond way since he doesn’t remove his hand.

“Any chance you can convince our unwanted guest to leave?”

_“No more than I can convince you to get some help.”_

“Oh c’mon,” he whines, “Who cares if I’m a little under the weather? I’ll just sleep this off, yeah? No need to get back on the drugs.”

_“Casper has a better complexion than you,”_ Ben points out, flatly and he must be in a bad mood if he’s bringing out the ghost jokes. _“That qualifies you as more than a little sick. You won’t have to take the medicine, if you’d just tell someone you’re feeling like shit. Mom can make you tea with honey for your throat. Hell, ask Diego and you’ll get your own bedside nurse.”_

“A raspy voice sounds sexy. Gives it the edge it needs to be sinful.” Klaus opens his eyes to wink, wincing when the glaring lights hit his eyes. “Not that you’d know anything about that. Seriously, you want me to sic _Diego_ on myself? Not gonna happen, Benerino.”

As much as he likes attention, having Diego stand guard in the corner of his room while he fights to keep himself from vomiting into a bucket isn’t his idea of a good time. He’s got enough ghosts hovering at his side, no need to add one overbearing mother-hen to the list.

For all the time that Diego spent clinging to their Mom’s skirt, his bedside manner was average at best. Though, they all dealt with sickness rather aggressively, knowing they couldn’t beat it with physical strength, stubbornness or in Allison’s case a rumor.

The last thing he needs is to be accused of going through withdrawal again. Which meant he couldn’t risk taking any medicine lest he got caught. Having any of his siblings around to listen in on a nightmare is a bigger dealbreaker than his last ex locking him into the tiny bathroom of his apartment during a power outage.

Boy, had Ben thrown a fit over that. Literally. Ghost tentacles had been flying around while Klaus broke down the door. Needless to say, it hadn’t been a fun evening for everyone involved.

_“Ask Mom.”_

“And risk getting my weakness exposed when Diego sends puppy eyes her way?” Klaus doesn’t bother to lift his head from where he’s trying to become one with his fluffy pillow, face smushed into the softness, squinting up at his brother with one visible eye open. “Yeah, no. I’m good for now. No need to bother Mom.”

Klaus waves Ben’s concern off. Sure, his body aches like a bad bruise, his throat is drier than a desert and he could fry eggs on his skin, but he had worse. Nothing beat dying in a sticky club. Or in an ambulance. Or the one time some hot paramedic revived him after he got tasered.

Good old times.

_“Right.”_ Ben shakes his head. _“You’re doing just wonderfully, aren’t you? A shining beacon of good health.”_

Ouch. What a way to kick a man when he’s down. Ben’s passive aggressive way of caring, while normal, isn’t helpful.

Klaus tells him as much. “Could you not? Your tough love act is cute and all, very manly as Diego would say, but it’s not wanted when I’m already feeling like shit. A little less bitching and a bit more caring would be great. Thanks.”

Ben snatches his hand away and Klaus bites down on his tongue to stifle a whine of protest.

_“Not wanted, huh?”_

“I didn’t—” That’s not what he _meant_. Of course, he wants Ben here with him, he’s never wanted him to leave even in the throes of arguing with anger and drugs clouding his mind and conscience and where it felt right to say such a horrible thing.

_“Maybe I’d give more of a shit about you when you start doing the same.”_

The weight on the bed doesn’t dip, but he can feel Ben’s presence move away from him across the room. Dread coils his guts into knots, though he doesn’t call out to apologize. Turning around with a huff, pulling his blanket up to his chin, he rolls over to face the wall.

Let Ben sulk at his desk for not getting his way. Klaus doesn’t care. Can’t with the way his skin stretches across his bones a size too small, headache building. The idea of getting out of bed to go downstairs and talk to any of their siblings makes him cringe for a variety of reasons he doesn’t want to think about.

Maybe he’ll ask Mom to check him over, next time she knocks on his door for lunch.

Nodding to himself while trying to melt into the mattress, his exhaustion lets him fall asleep in record time.

* * *

Shockingly, the easiest solution to his problem is so obvious, if he had any shame at all, he’d be embarrassed over how long it took him to figure it out.

All he needs to make himself feel better is a shower.

A cool one, to refresh his skin and wash away the disgusting layer of sweat. Mom reminded him to come downstairs in an hour and he’s already skipped lunch in favor of sinking into his nightmares. There’s no time for a bath, sadly.

He can’t miss out on dinner without someone coming to hunt him down. Apparently, it only took the near end of the world to establish family rules in their household they willingly followed and rule number three was a meal a day kept the family together instead of away.

Which meant, he can’t show up looking like he’s going through a bad case of withdrawal. Last time no one noticed, though there was an impending apocalypse drawing near, so Klaus is willing to give his family the benefit of the doubt in realizing he’s about to keel over this time.

To be bathroom it is then.

He’s glad to leave his bed, hoping to leave behind the lurking shadowy figures. Their crowd has only gotten louder and bigger during the time he slept away and with every additional wayward ghost haunting the halls that finds their way into his room, his patience grows thinner and rougher around the edges of his frayed nerves.

They won’t shut up. Not for long. Wailing, crying, and shouting at the world, at the people they left behind and at him. He’s slowly becoming one of them, the urge to give in and to cry along sides them increasing every time their garbled accusations bounce off the walls straight into his skull.

Funny how drugs can mute the voices but frying his brain doesn’t numb them to his ears at all.

Ben hovers near the edge of his vision. A silent observer among the handful of ghosts following him inside. His gaze is stuck somewhere above Klaus’ shoulder, not bating an eye at seeing him naked, lips pulled into a tight frown that deepens every time Klaus so much as tilts to one side. As if he’s waiting for him to fall.

What a trust fall that would be. Does it even count as a trust fall, if the one he has to trust is himself? Ben can’t do jack shit without Klaus giving him permission to cross over into the living.

What Ben can do is nag. Non-stop. He makes a passing comment to turn up the water temperature that Klaus ignores, because he’s melting and the cold water running down his body is like a soothing balm to a nasty burn.

Ben shoots him a glare, mumbling about fevers and chills under his breath.

Taking pity once he sees the worry shining through, Klaus turns off the tap and steps out to wrap himself into the fluffiest towel he can find. He uses Luther’s, the biggest size a towel can be without turning into a blanket and dries himself off, leaning against the sink to steady himself when he gets a bit dizzy. Quickly changing into a fresh set of clothes, he grimaces when he catches sight of his reflection.

Pastry white skin. Glassy, fever bright eyes. Lips bitten raw, skin slightly peeling off. Eyebags from lack of good sleep, though that’s nothing new. A faint tint of pink blooming in his cheeks. The picture book example of looking dead on his feet.

Thank fuck that’s his whole aesthetic.

Hastily applying a bit of make-up to conceal the fact he looks worse than some of the ghosts wandering around the place—he can’t have Ben looking better physically wise when his brother doesn’t even have a body to begin with, he does a half decent job of faking a healthier skin glow.

For once, he foregoes the eyeliner, kissing his reflection goodbye, and heads back to his room to find his favorite black cardigan. It’s a worn-out thing a size too big and it’d be the perfect match to the pastel pink yoga-pants that might’ve been Allison’s and his dip dye crop top he’s wearing.

Pulling it tighter around himself, he plasters a smile onto his face before braving going downstairs. Mom greets him, bustling around the kitchen to get dinner ready as he pulls out a seat for Ben before flopping down in his own, pretending not to see Diego’s frown as he stops flipping his knife in the chair across from him.

After a minute of staring, Diego crosses his arms and points out the obvious.

“You look like shit.”

“Thank you,” Klaus drawls out, plopping his chin onto his hand, elbow up on the table. “Are you done checking me out now or do I need to strike a pose?”

“Diego be nice to your brother,” Grace scolds and Diego sinks a little into his seat at her open disapproval, the momma’s-boy. She turns to look at Klaus, pursing her lips into a smile.

“Everything alright, dear?”

A man clad in robbery attire with a slit throat lets out a shout of anger from behind Diego’s shoulder, gurgling on the blood that drips down onto the rug.

“Just peachy, Mom, thanks.”

Diego narrows his eyes at the sound of his voice. “Did you sneak out for a smoke again?”

Klaus hums, waving off Ben’s scowl with a dainty flick of his hand. “What if I did? Cigarettes are fair game for me.”

“Still killing your lungs.”

“Oh please,” Klaus scoffs, laying his head down onto the table, cheek pressed against the cool wood. Unfortunately, Ben is still sulking and won’t share his pleasant cool touches. So, he’s stuck having to find relief against the heat some other way. “If snorting cocaine for seventeen years and shooting heroin for six years straight didn’t do me in, a bunch of nicotine sticks won’t hurt me either.”

Not like he’d stay dead at any rate. But Diego doesn’t need to know that.

They fall into a comfortable silence after that, mumbling a greeting whenever someone wanders into the kitchen. Luther comes in ten minutes later and Five appears in a chair the exact moment dinner is served, effectively reminding him that Vanya and Allison are out for the next few days on a girls’ weekend he sadly didn’t get invited to.

Normally, he would have invited himself, but Vanya looked so happy as she gave him a hug to say goodbye and Allison smiled so wide her teeth were showing as she instructed him to keep fighting to a minimum with her notepad in the presence of the rest of their siblings.

( _“You’re good at smoothing out tension when you care enough to put a stop to their fighting.”_

_Luther’s kicked puppy look made him grin, and not one to pass up an opportunity, Klaus saluted her, putting on his best stern-faced expression. “No worries I’ll make sure the kids won’t party too hard.”_

_Five threw him a glare while Diego flipped him of. Vanya hid a smile behind her hand and Ben said something about keeping his word he didn’t catch._

_Whenever Allison meant his tendency to throw himself at his brothers and cling on like a koala, Diego’s instinctual reaction to drop his knife whenever he burst into fake tears or his newest ability to make Ben the voice of reason remained unclear._

_Whatever. Allison gave him the authority to take charge. Which meant movie nights and sleepovers for the rest of his grouchy, stick in the mud brothers. Yay!)_

Klaus isn’t hungry, but he piles a bit of food onto his plate. Enough to swallow down his sandpaper torn throat and to dissuade someone from nagging at his small-sized potion like he can feel Ben wants to do without the food coming back up again.

He lets the voices of his brothers wash over him, throwing in a word and a smile here and then, shoving food into his mouth and trying not to gag. He flutters his lashes at Diego when he catches him risking a peek into his direction, slouching in his seat while doing his best to ignore the way their forks scraping across their plates gets his blood pressure to rise.

Being sick always turned him into a cranky bitch.

Ben could attest to that.

Footsteps creak on the floorboard, feather soft to anyone except for him, and Ben jostling upright into his seat are the only warning he gets before he feels the hair on the back of his neck stand up straight, an icy breath ghosting over the shell of his ear.

Bracing himself, all he does is tighten his grip around his fork as he twirls his spaghetti when the ghost lady starts screaming. Ben attempts to wrestle her out of the room, but it’s no use when another one wanders inside, coming up to lean over the back of his chair.

_Klaus_ , the man groans, _Klaus!_

The lady is shouting about injustice, how she was too young to die, the usual gibberish of revenge and pleading he’s long learnt to tune out as best as he could.

Blowing out a sharp breath through his nose, he doesn’t dare look up.

_“Shut up,”_ Ben hisses, sounding as fed up with the banshee as Klaus felt. _“Learn how to take a hint and get lost.”_

The screaming grows a little quieter when Ben drags her away. He sighs in relief, shoulders slumping, the streaming mumble of _Klaus, Klaus get up, get up or I’ll kill you. You need to help me, get up, Klaus, are you listening to me—Klaus!_ Static noise to his poor, abused ears.

It isn’t until a glob of bile like blood lands in his mashed potatoes that he snaps, twisting around in his seat to silently glower up at the ghost.

“Klaus!”

Head whipping back around, which does no favors to his neck, he snaps, “ _What?_ ”

Diego stares at him, lips parted slightly in shock while Luther’s spaghetti slip from his half-raised fork, an inch away from missing his plate and hitting the table. Even Five quirks an eyebrow from behind his mug of coffee at his tone.

Their crowd of ghosts don’t lower their voices.

Forcing a smile onto his face, Klaus lets out a chuckle, “Oh man,” he teases to fill the silence when Diego’s face sours. “You should’ve seen your face! Did I scare you?”

“No,” Diego snaps, unamused. Which means _yes_ and part of Klaus’ frustration fades, turning his grin lopsided and more genuine than it had been seconds before. Not that anyone would notice the difference. Or care enough to call him out on it.

“Sureeee,” he drags the word out long enough to get a twitchy eyebrow in response, obnoxious and mocking. “Nothing scares the big bad vigilante, right?”

Watching Diego’s fingers twitch around his fork gets him to laugh for real. His lungs hate him for it and he can see one of the men behind Five snarl, lips pulling backwards to reveal blood-stained yellow teeth. Another victim of a staged car crash judging from the various cuts and the melting skin on the side of his face. Probably died when the car went up in flames.

Biting back the urge to gag, he turns his attention to Diego.

“Did you want something from moi?”

Pausing, his brother grumbles “Whatever,” before he straightens up in his seat, eyeing him with pensive eyes. “Actually, yeah. There’s something we wanted to ask.”

“Oh.” Klaus blinks, because that’s new. Recovering quickly, he catches sight of Ben walking back into the kitchen, hands jammed into his hoodie pockets, scowling out the door in a warning for the ghost to stay away. “Alright, I’ll bite. Tell me what you want and I’ll decide if you were naughty enough to deserve a gift from Santa Klaus this year.”

Five snorts into his coffee, continuing to scribble away in the notebook he’s got on the table. His plate of food almost empty and it reminds Klaus of the fact that Luther seems to be on his second helpings and Diego’s a bite away from cleaning his own.

Swallowing dryly, Klaus wonders if he’s about to be grilled about his health. He’s not sure what gave it away, the general air of pissed off misery or how clammy his skin has gotten in the past few minutes, sweat breaking out across his forehead.

Maybe…he actually looks as shitty as he feels. Drained and exhausted, about to explode from all the stimulation his brain can’t handle.

Maybe they would believe him when he said he wasn’t feeling well, if they saw how sick he was for themselves before he admitted to it. That wasn’t being overdramatic, right? They couldn’t accuse him of making a big deal out of nothing for attention, if Klaus didn’t say anything beforehand. If he didn’t ask Mom for painkillers to ease his headache not even Luther could find a way to blame this on him.

_(“Don’t be dramatic, Klaus. It’s just a tiny cut.”_

_A cut that got infected and tied him to the bed on strict orders from Mom.)_

_(Rough hands shoving him out the door. “The ghosts can’t even touch you, so don’t be a baby.”_

_No. But they wanted to and that scared him shitless.)_

They weren’t like Dad, who saw and ignored him anyway. Pushing him to do better, _“Cease your complaints, Number Four and stop wasting my time.”_. Whose dead eyes swept over his crumbled form and left him in the dark with nothing to protect himself against the biting harsh cold of winter except for the heat his fever boiled him with.

Nobody beat Reginald Hargreeves for top spot in being a prick. Not even Number One. Though he came awfully close with Vanya’s soundproof basement cell. Klaus isn’t about to forgive and forget that one just yet, same as Vanya.

_(He was lucky, wasn’t he? That Luther never cared enough to force him into sobriety by locking him in a room until he got clean.)_

His brothers wouldn’t shove him into a room with Mom under instructions to only come back out when he’s not contagious anymore. Or threaten him with the hospital if his recovery took too long.

Ben wouldn’t let them.

There’s no reason for Klaus to hesitate. Running his mouth came as easy as breathing. Ben already told him he’s an idiot for not speaking up and generally his brother is right when it comes to Klaus blowing things out of proportion.

What’s the worst thing that could happen?

_(Ears ringing, neon lights flickering, all he sees is Luther’s back—_

_Moving further and further away from him without sparing him a second glance.)_

Mom is nice company. Patient, loving and gentle. No crowd of ghosts following her every step. Having her as a nurse wouldn’t be the worst.

Diego would check up on him for an hour or two. Getting his fill of Mom’s kind smile and fulfilling his need to keep up appearances as the best big brother in the house. Five would throw a box of tissues into his room or a book for Ben and him to read. A magazine if he’s feeling charitable.

With the whole new life mission of being a family, they might even let him camp out in the living room—

“Why don’t you make Ben visible?”

What little of his good mood remained officially just died. As horribly and painfully as roadkill John Doe in the corner glaring down at Five.

He can hear Diego start talking when he stays silent too long, offering an explanation he only catches halfway through because the last few weeks of turning Ben visible as soon as they got company obviously weren’t enough to get the message across that Klaus would have, if he had the _energy_.

“—if we’re doing this, we might as well do it all or nothing.”

Diego crosses his arms above his chest. Luther nods in agreement and wipes tomato sauce away from the corner of his mouth with a thumb. Five makes a vague humming sound in the back of his throat, clearly uninterested after the novelty of seeing Ben at least once a week wore of.

_“Don’t,”_ Ben warns like he can read his mind. _“You’re not making me visible when you’re sick.”_

Diego, eager eyed, prompts him to speak. “So?”

_“I will strangle you with your spaghetti.”_

“I can’t,” Klaus says finally, fighting off the urge to laugh because not only would that make him look like a lunatic back on drugs, but he’s certain he’ll start crying. “Too tired, sorry.”

Diego’s and Luther’s face falls, seemingly crushed by his answer and Klaus has half a though where he wonders if they’re as disappointed in him as he is of them. Is it the same heavy weight on their chests that flattens their ribs, that makes it hard to breathe? Can they feel their eyes sting with the salt of unshed tears? Feel the bitterness on the back of their tongues?

Looking at Diego’s and Luther’s pitiful expression, he can’t stand to stay any longer, the smell of the food too difficult to stomach.

It’s his own fault, Klaus reasons, quelling his shaking hands by curling them into fists. They missed Ben, that’s no crime. He shouldn’t have assumed it would be different this time—for all that he’s a beacon to the dead, how vibrant his presence can be, to the living he’s invisible more often than not.

Like death, people ignore his presence for as long as they could because they don’t want to deal with him. No surprise there. Death brings out the worst in people. No wonder he’s always alone.

“This has been fun and all, guys, but I desperately need to catch up on my beauty sleep. Can’t turn Benny into a real boy without the magic juice.” Wiggling his fingers in a vague jazz hand like motion, he stands up from his seat, chair nearly toppling over. “Ciao!”

Marching towards the stairs in quick, purposeful strides, Klaus trudges back up to his room, chest heaving. Utterly spent, he crawls under the covers, using his pillow to block out the noise of the ghosts.

It's not enough. It never will be. They won’t leave him alone.

Ben reappears next to his bed, sitting near his waist and Klaus scoots away from the chill, burying himself into his blanket to chase away the shivers. The cold moves away, lingering within reach just in case.

_“Listen,”_ Ben stresses, lacking his previous bite. _“I don’t want you to strain yourself with your powers to make me visible, Klaus. You’re sick. If they want to talk to me all they need to do is ask you—I’m right here and I’m not going anywhere, okay? Just focus on getting better quickly.”_

Nodding, Klaus hides his face in his pillow, turning his back to Ben. He can feel the gentle brush of cold water running through his hair, smoothing back his curls with care and decides he doesn’t need anyone other than Ben to get back to health. Or as close as he gets to it nowadays.

Ben did a pretty good job at keeping him alive the last seventeen years.

If he does croak, he’s sure the little girl upstairs will take one look at him and shove him right back out the door.


	2. Five in the evening is a bad time for a wake up call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dealing with a sick Klaus under normal circumstances is a nightmare. Dealing with him sober, Five realizes, is hell. Literally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate mondays. Which is why I decided to post the new update today. Hopefully, it'll make your day a bit better.
> 
> Also, I love writing Five.

The house is quiet during the night.

That is the first red flag Five oversees with sleep weighting down his mind, waiting for his coffee to finish brewing. There’s nothing unusual about the lack of ruckus in a house with too many rooms to spare. People sleep even if Five rarely manages a full night of rest and while Diego does pursue the hobby of petty crime fighting in the evening, he rarely comes back late enough to cross paths with Five in the morning.

Diego doesn’t have a bedtime like Luther, but treating his body like a temple means giving it the sleep it deserves, for it to be kept in top shape. Or some similar bullshit Diego sprouted to make the difference between their sleep schedules clear the last time someone teased him.

Frankly, Five didn’t listen.

Klaus did, he recalls as he eyes the clock hanging on the wall. Thirteen minutes past six and he hasn’t seen his brother once. Grace is up and about, beginning to make breakfast from the smell wafting out of the kitchen.

It’s…odd. Most days Five finds him wandering from room to room in the middle of the night, unwilling to settle down for longer than two hours tops, footsteps silent like a ghost. He certainly looks haunted with the flashlight he carries around, blinding Five on the days the lack of sleep forces his guard down, face weary and posture tired as he sways in place to the music blearing from his earphones.

Not tonight.

There’s a chance Diego, Luther or Pogo might find him somewhere. In the bathtub or a guest room. In one of the old classrooms, perhaps. Hopefully not behind the bar or once again in Diego’s ratty old car.

There’s no heating and fog begins to dust the window glasses overnight. Taking its time, the sun crawls up its way to rise, casting a faint yellow light across everything it touches, struggling to overcome the remains of the night. The beginning of winter looms near and thinking of his brother sleeping outside in such weather, car or not, makes Five want to bash Diego’s windows in to force him to get a new one.

One with a heater. God knows they’re not short on money.

For whatever reason, Klaus hates Dad’s car. Outright refuses to get in no matter what anyone says or threatens him with. They want to go shopping? Either in the van or Diego’s car. Hell, Klaus would walk the way barefoot, never mind the glass shards and grime he could be stepping into during the trip.

Five can’t say he disagrees with the sentiment. Fuck Dad has a nice ring to it. It’s catchy and Five gets it even if the others don’t.

Sleeping in his own bed doesn’t feel comfortable to him either. Klaus spent most of his years on the streets, going from one place to another with no direction in mind and has probably slept better in some gritty alleyway than underneath Hargreeves’ watchful eye and cameras.

“Morning,” Luther mumbles, bleary-eyed as he paddles into the kitchen and interrupts his thought process by sitting down on a chair that barely manages to hold his weight and creaks like it’s seconds from breaking.

Five nods in acknowledgement, refilling his coffee. Mom echoes the greeting cheerfully, setting down plates and forks and knives, pressing a kiss to their heads in passing.

Eyes stuck to the clock, he waits. Bread gets put on the table, freshly baked. Eggs. Bacon. A fresh can of coffee, or the reason Five allows his spot in Grace’s programming to include the ritual morning kiss to his head without stabbing her with a fork out of reflex.

Diego stalks into the kitchen when Mom moves back to the stove, yawning and grunting wordlessly before he squeezes himself a fresh glass of orange juice. Turning down Luther’s offer to help out, it’s only after his glass is empty that he finally notices the empty chair.

Mom sets down waffles, toasty warm and golden brown.

Five slowly sets down his cup of coffee.

“Stay,” he says to Diego, disdainfully. “You’re too slow. I’ll go.”

He doesn’t wait for his brother to sit back down before he jumps.

Appearing in front of Klaus’ door, Five rapidly knocks five times on the door frame, not wanting to catch an eyeful and to let Klaus know who’s at his door. He gets a groan in response and taking it as permission to enter, pushes the door that’s slightly ajar open with a firm shove, walking inside.

“Are you decent?”

Stopping short, Five blinks.

Klaus…is still in bed.

Not sitting up to paint his toe nails, humming a tune under his breath or leaning against his headboard with the hideous abomination he calls Diego’s Christmas gift in his hands, merrily knitting away.

He’s lying down, wrapped up in his blanket, the bundle moving up and down with his breaths. From this angle Five can’t see his face.

“Klaus?”

Another groan, half muffled into the pillow. “What?”

Five’s back straightens at the slurred grumble.

“Mom made waffles,” he says, frowning when there’s no audible reaction. “Did you hear what I just said?”

“Shut up,” Klaus moans, squirming in his sheets.

Temper sparking, Five scowls. “What?”

“What?” The squirming stops, a beat of silence filling the room. After a pause, Klaus amends, “Not you,” much to Five’s bafflement and makes no move to get out of bed.

Five mourns his now probably lukewarm coffee.

“Breakfast, idiot,” Five reminds him, tapping his foot on the floor. “You coming?”

All he gets in reply is a hand shooing him away.

“Mom made your favorite. If you don’t hurry Luther’s gonna eat them all.”

A blatant lie. Diego wouldn’t let him or Mom would simply make more at a request.

Klaus grunts unhappily. “Not hungry.”

Okay, that’s enough, Five decides in his mind, walking up to the bed to harshly poke the lump. Turning down free food, his favorite no less isn’t something Klaus does on a whim.

Not after so many years on a near empty stomach. Drugs could only dampen hunger pangs for some time.

“You’re going,” Five takes hold of the blankets, glaring at the curly mop of hair currently unwilling to turn around to look him in the eye. “Either get up now or I’ll make you. My coffee’s getting cold and I don’t feel like stabbing Luther for drinking my batch.”

“Go away, already!”

With a harsh, unrelenting tug, Five rips the blankets away.

Klaus yelps in protest, rolling over with the motion like he’s done so many times during their training, hands flinging out to grasp onto the sheets while he curls up into a ball, legs drawn up to his chest.

Five lets go of the damp blankets, clearly disgusted, “You’re sick.” He takes a step back.

“In the head,” Klaus finishes, snatching his comforter back. There’s no smile to accompany his joke, lips pale with a sheen of peeling skin. Bloodshot eyes peer up at him, pupils contracted. “Tell me something new or skedaddle.”

Giving into the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, Five lets out a sigh.

“How bad is it?”

“It’s not gonna get better the longer you stay here,” Klaus says, sullenly, stifling a cough. It’s a dry, rattling sound that makes Five’s lungs ache in sympathy, imaging all the ash in the apocalypse.

“Tough luck, I’m not going away until you tell me what hurts.”

A dramatic sigh follows. “ _Everything_ hurts. That’s kinda the problem.”

Five takes a deep, controlled breath and inspects his brother. Klaus sweat through his clothes, his greasy hair sticking to parts of his forehead. Shivers wrack him as he trembles in his sad cocoon of blankets, curling up like he can’t get warm. Eyes squinting at the lights that appear to hurt his sensitive eyes, yet unwilling to turn them off to get a little relief.

Basically, Klaus looks like shit.

“I’ll go get Mom,” Five says. “She’ll know how to help you. Try not to let it spread.”

Waiting for Klaus’ nod or rather dismissive flop as he rolls back over, he blinks away, reappearing in the kitchen. Ignoring Luther’s and Diego’s inquiring looks, he faces Grace.

“Klaus is sick,” he informs her, walking past her to wash his hands at the sink. “And not in a good mood it seems. Says he doesn’t want any food.”

Diego’s already standing up from his chair before Five finishes speaking.

“Not even waffles?”

Five shots him a look, shaking his head.

“Shit,” Diego swears under his breath, glancing towards the doorway. “What are we gonna do?”

Grace is hurrying upstairs as they speak, emergency program overriding her basic functions in the need to administer medical care to her patient. None of them expect her to answer.

“Shouldn’t we let Mom take care of him?” Luther proposes the idea awkwardly when Diego whips around to level him with a glower. “There’s not much we can do, is there? He’s sick.”

A logical solution. Five agrees.

Diego does not.

“So, what? We’ll just sit around and do nothing?” Diego scowls, hand twitching at his side like he wants to reach for a knife. He settles for crossing his arms over his chest. “So much for being a family. What about the plans we had? Three and Seven aren’t the only ones supposed to look after each other, Number One.”

“You can’t fight germs, Diego,” Five dries his hands. “Don’t be an idiot. Mom will look after him just fine. He’s got Ben with him too.”

“He always had Ben with him,” Diego shots back. “But never _us_. Are you saying you want to keep it that way, Mister Apocalypse?”

How childish. Five grits his teeth, not rising to the bait even though he can feel his anger match up to the taunt. He doubts Klaus would be capable of bringing on the end of times, but he understands Diego’s accusation as clear as if he’d spelled it out.

Fortunately, Luther cuts in before an argument can break out. “I think…” he says slowly, carefully picking and choosing his words as he looks between them with his brows furrowing in thought. “I side with Diego on this one.” He nods, resolute in his decision. “We were only planning on watching movies, right? If he feels up to it later, I can help him downstairs and we can watch some together.”

“Mom can make some popcorn,” Diego mutters to himself, looking like he’s thinking of a plan to ensure their brother won’t lose any more weight he can’t afford to shed. “Extra sweet. For old time’s sake.”

“Fine,” Five scrunches up his nose. It’s not every day these two numbskulls agree on something and there’s little harm in letting them argue over trash Tv while he works on his equations. “We’ll go check up on him every three hours and see how he’s doing to settle your paranoia. Keep in mind to wash your hands afterwards. If I catch whatever he’s having I’m coming for you next, and you’ll be bedbound longer than I’ll be.”

His displeasure and reluctance must be apparent, because Luther gives him a quizzing look, lips pursed like he’s trying not to smile and failing.

“It’s Klaus,” Diego scoffs, rolling his eyes. “What’s the worst thing he can do aside from puking on us?”

Lots of things come to mind, Five grimaces. From what he remembers of thirteen-year-old Klaus with the flu, he’s a high, clingy and snotty mess who’d sneeze into his elbow and hands while refusing to let go once he got you into his clutches. Moaning about the woes of being sick, demanding more medicine than necessary from Grace and swinging wildly between needy and grumpy whenever someone brought food anywhere near his face.

And they just signed up to spent a whole afternoon to evening with him.

Five downs his cold coffee, going for a refill and then reaching into his jacket to take out the emergency flask he’s carrying around.

“Where did you get that?” Luther demands, reaching out to take the flask. Having literally seen the answer to his question, he quickly changes the subject. “I thought you quit drinking.”

Five swats his hands away. “You thought wrong,” he pours the vodka into his coffee, daring Luther to try to stop him with a glare that makes his brother think twice about the risks. Smart choice. Five is definitely in the mood for stabbing someone now. “But I’ll give you points for trying.”

With that, he flashes away, mentally preparing himself for a tiring evening ahead.

* * *

“I’m sorry, boys, but your brother doesn’t wish to be disturbed.”

Mom tells them that for the third time, voice gentle to soften the harsh rejection that sounds like a nice, reasonable request for rest, but coming from Klaus basically means a fuck off.

“He…he doesn’t want to see us?” Diego repeats, having asked twice for Grace to let him through after she’s relayed her message, blocking the closed door with her body.

Grace smiles apologetically. “Yes.”

Even Luther appears stumped over the outright refusal to let them pass, lips parted and eyes rapidly blinking like he’s afraid he misheard.

Five isn’t faring much better. This hadn’t been a possibility he prepared for. _Klaus_ not wanting to see any of them? Unlikely. Impossible he’d think, if this weren’t be happening right now. Their clingiest brother refusing to let them into his room sounds laughable. Klaus never closed his door even when he should, never acknowledged what personal space meant, shoving himself close with no regard for other people’s comfort. Always the first to initiate a hug or contact, leaning onto them whenever he pleased, snagging a hand whenever their fingers would brush against each other’s while they walked side by side like it’s his job to stick to them like gum to a shoe.

Sue him for doubting Grace’s coding is working without a hitch when she tells them something that doesn’t make _sense_.

Five hates what he doesn’t understand, because everything should make sense. He knows he’s smart enough to get what others do not—he understands the complexity of _time travel_ for fuck’s sake. It doesn’t get more complicated than _that_.

Five’s certain, if he had all the information, all the pieces, he’d be able to solve the puzzle Mom unknowingly gave them to solve when she met them for every check up at the door, smile dim enough for Diego to try to peer around her to sneak a glance into the room only to be denied each time.

Except every time his mind works to connect the dots, to find a reason that would explain the sudden one-eighty Klaus did by refusing to let them inside his room, Five comes up empty-handed.

Klaus never told them to go away. It was always the other way around, someone throwing him out of a room for being annoying or slamming a door shut into his face when they didn’t want to be disturbed. Sometimes, they simply left him alone where he was, choosing to leave when Klaus refused to move.

Until now.

Something in Five’s chest twists into wrong angles, leaving him tense and unsure of his footing. There’s a voice in his ears, impelling him to force his way into the room, to check what Grace is saying is true rather than a glitch in her programming.

Part of him wants to snatch a knife from Diego, to cut open the wires and prove to himself that what she’s saying isn’t a lie.

_Maybe you upset him,_ Dolores’ voice suggests, faint to his ears now that he stopped hearing her after their parting weeks ago. _Really, Five, you could’ve been a bit nicer to your brother. Not like the guy wanted to get sick._

Forcing himself not to react, to stop himself from correcting her that the silent treatment and the cold shoulder have never been Klaus’ style but Dad’s, Five takes a deep breath.

In and out.

“Are you sure that’s what he said?” Diego frowns, looking suspicious. Good. They’re all on the same page then. Maybe he wouldn’t blow up a fuss when Five asks to take a look at Mom’s coding. “Maybe you misunderstood him. He doesn’t need to come downstairs, if he’s doesn’t want to, but we’d like to check on him, to see how he’s feeling—”

“Sweetheart,” Mom tuts and Diego wilts. “Your brother isn’t feeling well right now. He’s got a pretty bad fever, I’m afraid, and he’ll need all the rest he can get. Which means no roughhousing. He doesn’t want you to get sick as well.”

“I can take it,” Luther blurts out, shifting on his feet when Grace turns to look at him with a fading smile. “I don’t get sick easily,” he explains, gesturing towards himself. “Not since…you know.”

Awkwardness aside, Mom doesn’t budge.

“That’s kind of you, dear. But he doesn’t want any visitors.” Her blank face twists into a troubled frown. “He’s refusing to take medicine, which never happened before. I’m doing my best in helping his recovery along to the best of my abilities without it.”

“He’s sober now,” Diego reminds her, lips quirking up subconsciously. The words taste a little funny on his tongue, foreign like he’s been waiting to say them for years and stopped hoping they’ll become true by practicing them in front of a mirror. “Haven’t seen him pop a pill in weeks. He’s planning on staying that way.”

Last time Diego looked so proud was the day he managed to form a full sentence without stuttering once. Luther frowns, but holds his tongue. Five wishes they’d stay on track.

“I know,” Mom shares Diego’s smile, beaming. “I haven’t detected any fresh drugs in his system.”

Luther’s eyes widen, equal parts surprised and ashamed. Diego looks smug, throwing Luther a glance as if to say _See? Bet you feel like an asshole now_.

Which is beside the point, they’re all a bunch of pricks, and Five is done listening to these simple-minded idiots stumble their way through a conversation that got derailed minutes ago.

“Is he dressed?” Five glares at the door.

Mom blinks, eyes focusing on him and tilts her head to the side. Nods.

That’s all he needs to know to jump into the room. Diego and Luther yell behind the door, which Five ignores to storm over to the bed. Refraining from swatting a sick person upside the head, though maybe that’s what Klaus would need to turn his brain cells back on, Five settles for harshly jabbing him in the side.

“Come in, why not,” Klaus hisses, flinching away from his touch as far as the bed allows, causing the cold cloth to slide down from his forehead. “Because a closed door means you’re welcome to waltz in.”

Snatching the cold rag, dipping it into the bowl of cold water at the bedside table, Five aggressively wrings it out. “ _You_ —” Water drips back into the bowl as his knuckles turn white. “—are a _brat_.” He throws the rag at Klaus’ dumb face.

“And you’re old. We get it, I’m young and dumb and you’re older than time itself and wise beyond my years,” Klaus huffs out which ends up in a coughing fit. Needing a minute to get himself back under control, he rasps, “Are we done yet?”

“No.” Five says, flatly.

There’s a moment where Klaus’ gaze flickers around the room, settling on a spot with shiny, unfocused eyes under partly closed eyelids that widen when he swallows his next inhale, his hands twisting violently in the sheets tugged in around him, and then they dart towards Five’s face with deadly accuracy.

“I think we are,” he says, nonchalantly if it weren’t for the waver in his voice and the shortness of breath belaying his urgency. “You’ve seen me, I’m alive, now go back to scribbling on your wall or plotting world domination or whatever you do in your free time and let the other two know my schedule is fully booked with my bed and _no_ , I can’t squeeze in an appointment for them.”

That dry toned delivery with the dismissive flap of Klaus’ hand is what breaks Five’s tight control of his temper.

“We’re not done until _I_ say we are,” Five snaps and balls his hands into fists to prevent himself from shaking Klaus by the collar of his shirt. “I’ve had it with your attitude. I get it, you’re sick and miserable and want to have your little pity party that we’re not invited to, but, and here’s a thought, do you ever think of anyone _else_ except yourself? We—”

Klaus lurches upwards so quick the cloth goes flying to the end of the bed. He cups his mouth, shoulders drawing up to his ears as a wheezing noise splutters out between his lips. Coughing into his hands, he gasps like he’s not getting enough air into his lungs, frame shivering.

Five steps back out of reflex, brows drawing together in concern. “Are you—"

“Mom,” Klaus calls for her, effectively interrupting Five and shocking him into silence. He’s pressing one hand firmly over his lips, cheeks flushed against the stark paleness of his skin and he’s shouting for Grace with a desperation like he’s going to be sick any minute. “MOM!”

The door slams open, knocking against the wall, Grace hurrying inside with Diego and Luther at her heels at the same time as Five lunges for Klaus’ trash can, shoving it into his lap just in time for him to throw up.

Bile lands with a splash in the makeshift bucket, making them grimace. Grace slips past Five to put a comforting hand on Klaus’ back, rubbing up and down to soothe him, sitting down at his side on the bed.

“O—out,” Klaus gags out, coughing between retching. “Get…get them _out_.”

Diego and Luther share an uneasy glance, not moving away or any closer.

“Bumblebee,” Grace coos, brushing his hair away from his face. “Do you want your brothers to leave?”

Klaus, who is hunched over, trembling and holding onto the trash can like someone might snatch it away, viciously nods his head.

Diego’s face crumbles as he takes a step forward. “Klaus—”

“Now, now, boys,” Grace rises from the bed. There’s steel seeping into her voice and spine. “Run along. We wouldn’t want you to fall ill and it seems to me that your brother used up his energy for today.”

She grips Five by the shoulder, steering him firmly towards the door and for once, he follows without complaint to being manhandled, guilt cooling his temper like a fire being dosed with water when he hears Klaus try to hack up a lung.

“Get better soon,” Luther tells Klaus stiffly, moving to follow and Diego echoes the sentiment, lingering before Grace clears her throat and he slowly drags his feet out the door. She shuts them out, leaving them outside in the hall.

Diego wastes two seconds from rounding on Five.

“What the _hell_ was that?”

Five shrugs, nails biting into his palms.

“Jesus Christ, Five, you’re not supposed to make him feel _worse_.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Five bristles.

“Do you, genius?” Diego throws out a hand towards the door, the tip of his knife pointing towards the center of the wood. “Because it sure as hell didn’t sound like you knew judging from the way you tore into him.”

Five grits his teeth. “I admit I could’ve handled that…a bit better,” he allows, stuffing his hands into his pockets, jutting out his chin. “But I didn’t mean to make him throw up dinner or what’s left of it.” He wrinkles his nose in distaste. “How was I supposed to know that me raising my voice would do what a dumpster doughnut could not? He’s not easy to upset.”

Luther inclines his head to Five in agreement. “There was something off about the situation.”

“Like what?” Diego asks, sourly. “You think Mom poisoned him or something?”

Shooting him an exasperated glance, because that was weeks ago and he’d already apologized twice for accusing any of them for that murder, Luther pushes on, “It just doesn’t feel very in character for someone like…Klaus.”

Scowl returning full force, Diego takes a threatening step forward. “I’d be very careful over choosing my next few words if I were you, Luther.”

“Think about it,” Luther insists, arms remaining by his sides. “You’d know him better than Five or me when he’s sick, but this…this whole shutting himself into his room thing doesn’t seem like something he’d do, I guess.”

Falling silent, Diego considers the words, grudgingly putting his knife away and crossing his arms.

“No,” Diego says, “It’s not. Last time he broke in, stole my couch, then made himself at home in my bed and made me get him some soup from a department store three blocks away.”

“See?” Luther lets out a sigh, rubbing a hand over the side of his face, tiredly. “Look, he wants to be left alone and pushing him won’t do us any favors. Why don’t we just…wait for him to come to us?”

“He’s not some skittish stray cat you’re trying to coax out of a shoebox, asshole.” Diego retorts, though he deflates, eyeing the door with longing. No doubt wanting to fix something that couldn’t be fixed, Five muses to himself, not _yet_ at least. “But fine. We’ll do it your way since it can’t be worse than Five’s.”

Flipping his brother off, Five turns to leave.

Let the two morons figure out the movie. He’ll make the popcorn.

* * *

_“He’s asleep—so don’t be too loud.”_

_“How is he, Mom?” Luther leans forward, arms braced on his knees, movie forgotten. Diego stops polishing his knives and Five looks up from his notebook, interest piqued._

_The popcorn bowl rests on the table, filled to the brim. Untouched._

_Grace’s smile dims the tiniest bit. “Don’t worry,” she reassures, hands folded neatly over her skirt. “Your brother is stronger than you know. He’ll probably be up and running in no time, causing mischief and setting my lovely curtains on fire. With more rest and a little more care I’m sure improvement will show tomorrow.”_

_That is not the answer they’d been hoping for._

_“Grace,” Pogo’s voice echoes out of the hall. “Let’s get you some rest. One of the children will alert you, if you’re needed.”_

_While none of them were happy to speak to Pogo after the revelation of his part in Vanya’s torment at their Father’s hands, nobody speaks up to refute the claim._

_“Of course,” Grace bids them goodnight. “Don’t stay up too late, my dears.”_

_“Goodnight, Mom.”_

_“Night.”_

_Five nods, turning back to his equations. Silence falls over the room, the movie continuing to drown out the silence. He’s lost the plot in the first three minutes, having no desire to watch with his own entertainment laid before him._

_“You’re not subtle, Five.”_

_Pencil ripping the paper under his hands, Five stills. “Whatever.”_

_Neither Diego or Luther are paying attention to the movie it seems, because when he glances up, he’s met with two set of eyes staring at him._

_“What?” he growls out._

_Diego snorts. “I’ve seen you glance towards the door at least three times in the last ten minutes. You sure you don’t wanna jump upstairs to check on him?”_

_“No.”_

_A disbelieving hum. “That sounds like a yes to me. Whaddya think big guy?”_

_Luther raises an eyebrow, looking from Five to the door then back again. “Well, it definitely wasn’t a no.”_

_“He’s sleeping,” Five says, defensively. “We agreed to wait.”_

_His fingers itch. Patience had never been his strong suit and with the objective so close, it’s hard to resist giving into the temptation. Klaus wouldn’t even know._

_Ben would._

_Taking another sip of his coffee, Five turns back to burning holes into his notebook, not letting Diego’s teasing get to him. If he wants to, he’s free to go upstairs himself and risk getting a scolding from Grace that will leave him moping for the next few days._

_Five can wait. He’s spent forty-five years in a wasteland of misery and ash. An hour or two tops is nothing to compared to that. He’s got time now that the apocalypse isn’t hanging over their heads._

* * *

Five hears them before he sees them. Washing his hands in the sink after going to the bathroom an hour and two cups of coffee later, there’s breathing echoing in his ears. Quiet and faint as the icy whiff brushes over the back of his neck. Putrid and moist. Far colder than the water in his palms.

A familiar smell hits his nose.

The stench of something rotten.

Eyes flickering across the mirror, tracking his reflection, he slows his breathing, heart beginning to pound in his chest. Fog crawls over the glass, glistering with the temperature drop. Rubbing his palms across his eyes, he steps closer on silent steps, wiping a finger down the glass.

The trail immediately dusts over again.

Goosebumps break out across his skin, a tickle running down his arms up to his shoulders. Muscles stiffening, he steps away from the sink, from the cloudy mirror, stopping once his shoes step into a puddle of water.

Holding his breath, Five glances down.

Only to see blood covering the pristine white tiles of the bathroom floor.

“Shit—"

Something shatters, the mirror breaking to pieces as it spiderweb cracks. Humanoid shapes begin to form out of mist, fleshing out in front of his eyes quicker than he can blink, washes of hot red, purple and blue blinding him.

Familiar faces greet him in his reflection, their skin pale and their eyes dead. _You,_ some of them snarl, reaching for him with their cold hands.

Whirling around, flinching backwards, Five’s back slams into the sink, hands scrambling for purchase on the porcelain. Mind gong blank, he fumbles for the broken shards of the mirror, foregoing searching the cupboard beneath the sink for the knives and the gun he knows are stashed away in there.

Ducking low to avoid a fist swinging for his head, Five stabs the glass shard into the man’s chest, shoving him off his makeshift weapon and back into the mob by the throat when he slumps forward, hot blood gushing out of the wound.

That’s when he hears it.

Screaming shakes the ground beneath his feet, loud and grating, bellowing upwards in a cry for help.

_Ben._

Palms heating up, Five finds himself on a different floor before the man’s body hits the ground, stumbling backwards at the sheer crowd loitering in the hall. Disformed figures were shoving at each other, howling with split open jaws and missing tongues each more grotesque than the last. Lacking limbs, they groan and screech, creating a haunting echo of people talking over each other in a frenzy. Entrails drag across the carpet, stomach acid burning the rug and the smell of blood is overwhelming, polluting the frigid air with its coppery fumes.

Five can’t see Ben among the crowd.

Panic crawling up his throat, the adrenaline kicks in, muting the godawful noise that’s making his ears ring. His focus sharpens into precision and he catches himself on the wall, fingers shaking. They curl around the glass shard in his fist, the pain from accidently cutting himself helping to ground him and shake off the terror churning in his stomach.

Five can’t hear himself think. Voices blend together, harsh cries and weeping slurs becoming incomprehensible between the scratching against wood, the smacking of hands against flesh. Even during his time with the Commission where gunfire and explosions made up his daily background noises, never before did Five have trouble in hearing his own thoughts.

His mind is sharper than any blade, faster than his jumps and always focusing with a hundred percent of his concentration. But here with the raging of the dead in his ears he can’t seem to block out, he can’t mute the world outside of himself.

Only one sound is understandable among the screams—

_“Klaus!”_

—The furious, drawn out syllables of his brother’s name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Five at the beginning of the day: Well, this day can't get any worse.  
> Five at the end of the day, reloading his shotgun: My house is haunted and these bastards ain't paying any rent. Time to call the exorcists.
> 
> Next up will be a chapter in Ben's pov!


	3. Six o' clock is a good time for damage control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five gets to let off a little steam and Ben tries to do a little damage control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, having seen my writing for the 100th time, completely dead inside: Is this good? Bad? Boring? Emotional?
> 
> Thank you all for the support <3 Next chapter should be longer again! Enjoy the new chapter~

Ben remembers how it felt like to die the same way he remembers how he used to live. With a yearning one chases memories they’ll never get to repeat. Death was agony, muscles tearing him apart at the seams like an old, worn stuffed toy being ripped into two and yet, the way the pain faded from a burning spitfire to a numbing balm left him grateful.

For a single breath, the last one, Ben felt at peace. Happy, even. In the glow of the fading light embracing him.

In the end he chose to follow a different glow, fiercer than the dull sunshine the first one had to offer. This glow gave him air to breath, chased away the cold for an icy hot touch instead of lulling him into slumber, weightless and free.

Ben remembers his death.

He can’t recall how afraid he was.

Standing in the crowd of the dead, watching them dig their claws into Klaus’ skin, helpless to do anything but hold his trashing brother close and shield him with his body, he’s not sure it’ll compare.

Klaus is shrieking his lungs raw, eyes wide and bruises blooming on his arms, legs and face. A night sky shades his paleness, highlighting the contrast of violence on his skinny frame. He’s hunched over in the corner Ben managed to drag him to, as small as he can make himself while Ben stands in front of him, undaunted in spite of the wrathful faces leering at the glowing blue light they don’t deserve to leech from.

That light, Ben recalls, made the darkness after death a lot more bearable.

“ _Klaus!”_ The ghosts reach out. “ _Klaus—"_

Ben can’t hold them off any longer. Not without the Horror. Looking at Klaus, whimpering in the corner of his blood-soaked room, delirious from fear and his fever, he can’t risk taking more energy than he needs to keep himself from vanishing into thin air.

He doesn’t want to snuff out that spark. Refuses to let it come to that.

“Diego!” The Horror rolls in his stomach, hissing like a spitfire of angry snakes ready to pounce. Straining to keep his cool, he bellows, “Luther!”

It’s no use. There’s no way his voice could be heard over the sheer volume of the dead drowning out everything else around them. Breath catching in his throat, Ben tries to angle himself better, shoving back every little inch of the ground he lost, because he knows attempting to reason with Klaus won’t work. He’s too far gone, lost in the sea of the undead and swept away with old terror clouding every sense.

All that stands between death and his brother is _Ben_ and that realization rekindles a part of him, something animalistic and far too similar to the eldritch creature craving retribution for him to be comfortable with the primal urge to protect and tear into anything that comes too close to what he considers his own.

_My family. My brother. My light in the dark._

_Mine,_ The Horror agrees with the sentiment and that’s the worst part. To lose himself in the desires of a monster only to see they’re his own. That somehow down the years, spilling blood became acceptable as long as they could go back home together.

Every muscle is coiled tight with anticipation. Ben stomach’s cramps, tentacles pushing to burst outwards—

Dark blue fills his vision, a familiar head of black hair whipping around. Wild eyes sliding past his gaze sharper than the blade of a hot knife through butter.

Five.

—Ben’s relief feels tangible in his hollowed bones as he doubles over with a grunt, widening his stance.

There’s a cut dripping blood down Five’s cheek, staining the collar of his shirt a faint red while his disheveled hair sticks up in places sweat couldn’t flatten it down. Uniform untidy at best and torn at worst, their shortest brother wastes no time in crouching down and ducking behind Ben to look at Klaus.

Gurgling on their blood, the dead snarl, “ _Klaus!”_

Twisting around to match the vicious growl, Ben lets the eldritch creature seep into his voice as he bares his teeth.

“Stay back,” _Or else_ , the skin underneath his shirt shifts and ripples.

He doesn’t need to glance over his shoulder to see what’s happening. He knows Five too well to second guess what’s about to happen.

Knows the bubbling force of fury that’ll eat its way up Five’s chest with every hand shaped bruise, every scratch mark and bite—those fucking mausoleum banshees will get their remaining teeth knocked out in this state and Ben’s got a front seat to watch it happen—will burn these corpses to ash in a parody of a cremation.

Nobody was as ruthlessly protective as Five. Even the Horror could respect that, settling down in Ben’s belly with a purr of satisfaction.

“Ben,” Five wipes the blood from the corner of his split lip, eyes ferocious and expression sharp and deadly when he turns to glance over his shoulder. “I’ll take care of the ghosts. You take care of Klaus.”

Fingers flexing, they crack once, twice and then.

Then Five _lunges_.

Bodies fall, crumpling to the floor in flashes of manic rage and red-blue blurs. Five flashes out of sight whip-fast and the bloodbath begins anew.

Waiting a beat before turning his back to the fight, Ben drops down into a crouch near Klaus’ feet and desperately tries to catch his gaze.

“ _Klaus—”_ A startled scream, cut off mid-way with a sickening twist of a neck.

Five’s fierce voice steamrolls over the dead, “Expand your fucking vocabulary.”

“Hey,” Ben implores, knowing touch wouldn’t be welcome and calling his brother by his name would achieve absolutely nothing in this scenario from experience. “Look at me, dumbass.”

Nothing. Another bone snaps behind his back. Ben can’t bring himself to care.

“Anyone in there?” he tries again, firmer. “Earth to that tiny thing you call a brain?”

Not even a hint of recognition in the huddled form trying to become one with the wall.

_Shit_.

He doesn’t know what to _do_. Klaus won’t react. Calling him by his name, number or otherwise won’t help. The last thing Ben wants to do is push his brother deeper in the nightmare he’s reliving by becoming the towering figure of their Dad.

That’s how this shitshow began. A feverish nightmare without drugs to keep a dam from bursting down.

Some bitter part of Ben admits that Klaus would know what to do. As much as he liked to pretend otherwise with his antics and flare for dramatics, Klaus was good at cheering people up, comforting them with a joke or by simply being himself. He’d always been. Before and after the drugs.

Vanya couldn’t have said it better in her book. Klaus had been a sweet child. The older he became, the more that initial kindness became wilted, like a flower someone forgot to water, left to die in the shade—in that goddamn mausoleum—without the sunlight it needs to flourish under.

(“ _You’re like the rose that grew from concrete,” Ben had mused one evening, watching his brother light a joint with shaking hands._

_Stubborn. Thick-headed. Persistent. Not wanted where you are._

“ _Better not be a red one,” Klaus took a drag, blowing the smoke in Ben’s face with a flamboyant grin, reading between the lines and finding a smile where other people would frown. “I’m no basic bitch and I hate to be a cliché. Make it black. Or pink.”_

_Ben snorted, swatting the smoke away. “Who’s the cliché now?”_

“ _Meh,” Klaus blew a raspberry. „The only flowers I like are the ones I can smoke.”_

“ _Nobody will bring weed to your funeral, Klaus.”_

“ _It’d be my last wish, Benny! You can’t deny a man his last wish.”_

“ _Ask Dad.”_

_A harsh sounding burst of laughter that’s abruptly cut off, “Daddy can go and choke on Satan's dick.”)_

Comforting people had never been Ben’s job. He’d always been the one who needed to be held close at night when his stomach ached so bad, he started crying.

“You can make them go away,” he leans closer, meeting unseeing terrified eyes with his own, hoping to whoever Klaus believed to be God, that his own were warm and encouraging instead of aggressive. “I swear you can do it. All you need to do is let go and take a deep breath with me, alright?”

There’s one method Ben knows would work.

He can’t bring himself to suggest it.

There’s no guarantee Klaus would endure another withdrawal.

He can’t be responsible for taking Klaus’ chance at seeing Dave again away. Not when he owed the man his gratitude for Klaus’ sobriety.

They’re all finally back home together. Ben can’t bring himself to give that up.

Lost in thought, he startles when someone knocks him aside, their sharp elbow digging into his ribs. Gaze snapping up, Five’s wide eyes tell him their time is up. Glancing over his shoulder, the dead contort in sickening shapes, rising back onto their feet despite Five’s best efforts to make them stay down.

“No drugs,” Ben says, desperately, seeing Five flinch. There’s something raw in his expression, pale faced like the time Vanya demonstrated her powers and fear swells up the lump in Ben’s throat, making him sound choked.

“He’ll hate it,” Hate _you_ , Ben doesn’t say as the dead crowd closer. “You don’t get to make that choice for him—” for _us_ , he thinks bitterly, “—it’s not his fault, Five, so don’t punish him for it.”

Mouth twisting, Five squeezes his eyes shut before he turns to Klaus, lips twisting into a grimace as his hands go straight for Klaus' neck. Ben’s lack of a heartbeat doesn’t stop him from feeling it skip a beat as he watches Five’s fingers curl around, light discolored skin, applying pressure onto the slender throat while Klaus' eyes grow wide with horror.

“Five, what—”

“Carotid Artery,” Five shouts, eyes adverted as Klaus chokes and kicks out, avoiding getting a knee to the stomach by straddling him. “Apply enough pressure on the nerves and the lack of blood flow to the brain makes him faint.”

Ben tears his eyes away from his brothers, hands pressed over his stomach as he listens to Five make soothing noises through gritted teeth. Klaus wheezes softly, a whimper slipping through before he falls silent, feet calming their frantic kicking across the floor.

Seconds pass and it feels like minutes—years until the energy fueling Ben’s lungs flows out of him and the ghosts fall quieter with each stifled breath, fading back into the silent observers they were meant to be.

Five snatches his hands away the moment the ghosts vanish, letting Klaus fall forward and use his shoulder as a pillow for his head, arms hanging limply by his sides.

Letting out a shuddering breath, one hand resting on the back of Klaus’ head, the other around his upper back, Five holds him close. Checks his breathing as Diego and Luther glide into the doorway, both looking worse for wear.

“What happened?” Luther asks, harshly, out of breath, looking over his shoulder for something he can’t see anymore, Ben notes.

“Ghosts,” Five spits the word out like a swear. “The second coming of the apocalypse. Klaus’ powers blowing up in our faces. Take your pick.”

Diego’s lips move wordlessly, knife clattering to the floor.

Luther tenses, face draining of color at the revelation, eyes flickering around the room then towards where Five is cradling their brother.

“I…,” he stops, leans against the doorway for support he won’t receive from Diego, who takes a bold step into his line of sight, hackles, chin and fists raised. Daring him to overstep a line he shouldn’t.

Ben tenses up, fists clenching.

Luther better not be about to repeat his mistake. Or he’ll learn firsthand how horrifying Ben could be given the right motivation.

Watching Luther frown, feeling Five shift next to him, he braces himself for the worst.

“Should I get Mom?”

That…isn’t the question Ben expected him to voice. When nobody answers, Luther turns around and says, “I’ll go and get Mom.”

And then Luther turns and leaves.

Just

Leaves.

The bedroom.

Without another word.

Disappearing into the hall. Floorboard creaking underneath his heavy feet.

He leaves.

And Five’s eyebrows are climbing onto his forehead. Diego slowly lowers his guard like he thinks it’s a trick, blinking bewilderingly at the abrupt departure before he shakes his head and snaps out of his stupor, hurriedly making his way over to sink down to the floor next to Five, laying a hand onto Klaus’ back, wincing at the heat Ben couldn’t feel.

“H-He’s bu-burn—" Diego stops, squeezing his eyes shut to take a shaky breath, reopening them again, forcefully quelling his stutter. “He’s burning up.”

There’s an odd pause, like they’re waiting for someone to speak, and the silence weighs heavily on their shoulders when nobody does.

“Really? I didn’t notice,” Five mutters and doesn’t move. Doesn’t shift their brother to Diego without being prompted to no matter how uncomfortable their current position must be.

“He shouldn’t be this warm,” Diego continues, rubbing his palm up and down Klaus’ back tenderly. “He always runs a little on the cooler side. Pretty nice to have him close during summer.”

Five throws him a side-eyed scowl. “I’m aware.”

“I know,” Diego replies, eyes suspiciously shiny. “Just trying to figure out what the facts are and where we got it wrong, you know.”

Ben reaches out to lay a hand over Diego’s knee, giving it a squeeze. Exhaustion wears them down now that the fight is over, though one wouldn’t think so looking at Diego whose eyes roam distrusting throughout the room or Five, who appears to be ready to spring to his feet at the drop of a hat.

Somehow, Ben doubts the worst has come to pass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Luther, seeing the ghosts for the first time: Fuck this shit, I accepted Vanya having world destructive powers, Five's mission to prevent the apocalypse and getting turned into an ape-man, but I draw the line at zombies. *straight up leaves to process what the hell is going on*
> 
> Next up: Luther's crisis


	4. The Calm Before The Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of the dead, Luther has a lot of thinking to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ngl, writing Luther has been difficult for me. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for taking the time to give me feedback!!!

There are scratch marks on the walls.

Deep and ragged, running along the wood and grainy paintings, ripping them into two—threw—four stripes. Apart from those, there’s nothing aside from destroyed furniture— a broken vase, a torn curtain, a broken shelf or window glass littering across the floor —to tell what happened a few minutes ago was real.

That Luther didn’t make it up.

His shoes don’t make gross squelching noises when he walks through the hall, there are no bloody hand prints among the walls, crudely smearing trails along the corners. Even when Luther can still feel it on his clothes, on his hands, there’s no blood sticking to his skin.

No icy breathes and groans brushing against the nape of his neck. Slick palms caressing his pulse with their greedy hands.

There are scratches on Five’s wrists. Small, short lines bleeding sluggishly like the cut on his face he merely slapped a plaster on. Luther can’t recall those on Four’s arms or legs when they were little shorter than Five is now.

Would he have known?

Would he have dismissed Klaus’ worries as cries for attention?

_(“Number One, while your commitment in seeing your siblings succeed is admirable, don’t let Number Four’s childish temper tantrums waste any more of your attention. That boy needs to learn to harness his powers instead of shunning them. Mindless coddling will not be tolerated.”)_

Both answers make something in Luther’s stomach lurch. Eyes glued to watching Five bandage his wrists, he doesn’t bother to tend to his bruises and shallow cuts. Not when Mom is upstairs tending to Klaus, whose bruises are far deeper than his own, purple instead of yellow, cuts gashes in place of scratches that’ll fade soon with no scars to show.

Closing his eyes seems impossible without reliving the pale sunken faces unhooking their jaws to howl at him, so he makes sure to keep them open, never blinking too long in fear of seeing the horrors wandering around the halls.

Luther’s ears are still ringing.

Do Klaus’ ever stop?

Swallowing thickly, Luther waits for one of his brothers to speak. He’s not going to repeat the mistakes he made with Vanya again. He finds it unfair to compare—Vanya’s room was _safe_. Not necessarily comfortable, but at that time under shock and stress, it made sense to shut her away. To keep herself from hurting others or herself. Just for a little while.

That’s what Luther’s job has been. To protect his siblings. A role he’s doing a shit job at so far.

He knows. He’s trying to be better, to be worthy of being Number One again, so he won’t speak.

Thankfully, Five breaks the tension that’s building up in the room since Mom whisked their brother away for a quick bath and told them to wait in the living room until further notice. An update on Klaus’ condition would soon follow and once Five catches onto a thought, a problem or an idea there’s no stopping him.

They could do with an idea or two. Because Luther has no idea how to handle this—and he _should_ , but his thoughts are still hung up on those nightmarish ghouls that appeared out of thin air with cold blood in their veins and dead, furious eyes befitting rabid wildlife—and he’s so far out of his comfort zone with something clearly so fragile in its complexity that he won’t mind leaving the lead to Five this once.

“He can’t stay here.”

Forget self-imposed silence, Five’s ideas are insane. How could Luther have forgotten that one small detail?

“What?” Diego springs to his feet, the exhausted tension sharpening into something wakeful and furious in the blink of an eye. “You better not be implying what I think you are, because if you think for one second, I won’t punch your milk teeth out of your face for throwing our sick brother onto the streets —”

“Good thing my thought process is a hundred times smarter than yours because that possibility didn’t even cross my mind.”

Mouth snapping shut, Diego grimaces and sinks back down into his seat, flicking popcorn away. There’s still some scattered across the floor among the chipped wood from the broken table that got destroyed during the fight which means Diego can’t use it as a footrest anymore after getting thrown into it and settles for keeping both feet firmly planted onto the floor.

“Done yet with the needless interruptions?” Five doesn't wait for an answer, dismissing Diego by turning away from him to stalk to the bar. “Good. Obviously, staying here in his condition is out of question—too many ghosts are hanging around and I don’t want a repeat of what happened with Vanya.”

“We’re not going to lock him up somewhere,” Diego says immediately, throwing a suspicious glance at Luther, who winces and looks at his feet, feeling called out on something he wasn’t even going to suggest. The thought of leaving Klaus to those—those _things_ makes him sick.

Mom’s upstairs, Luther has to remind himself, though the knowledge doesn’t ease the guilt in his burning lungs. _He_ should be up there, making sure his brother saw a friendly face upon waking up, even if he’s not exactly a friend to Klaus, who probably wouldn’t want him there. Diego would be the best choice, then Five, Allison, Vanya.

But not Luther. The only one he can blame for that is himself.

Never before has he been so grateful for being wrong. At least Klaus has Ben sticking around to protect him from something Luther hadn’t known he needed protection from.

Dragging a hand through his hair, he bites down hard enough on the inside of his cheek to taste blood. Good. He deserves no less for how he’s failed his family. Dad would be ashamed—

“Next one who tries that shit gets made into a pincushion.” Diego threatens, knuckles white around the tight grip he’s got on his knife. Probably to stop them from trembling.

Luther’s hands won’t stop shaking either.

Unknown to them, Ben lets out a sigh of relief from his place behind the love-seat.

“Like you’d manage to hit me,” Five mutters spitefully, turning his back on the bar to pace up and down. Getting drunk wouldn't be the wisest choice even if it's really fucking tempting. Bandage covering his cheek, Five's lip is wiped clean of blood, leaving only bruises along his knuckles that keep cracking every odd minute. He looks ready to climb the walls, glancing between the bar and the stairs, stewing in his anger like water ready to boil over. His flask went out the broken window as soon as he downed it upon stomping down the stairs, huffing and puffing like a volcano ready to explode.

The sound of footsteps coming closer, lacking Mom’s tale-telling clacking of her heels, makes all of them turn towards the entrance where Pogo is limping in.

“If I may offer my advice to you children,” he begins to say, leaning on his cane. Face distraught and eyes sad, his voice is thick with concern. “I believe it would be wise to medicate Master Klaus until his sickness has passed.”

He’s looking at Five expectantly as he says it, not sounding the least bit contrite over his words, about the implications and the part of Luther that’s always been disgusted over the drugs only feels disgusted with himself.

_Medicate_.

Because Klaus is in pain and nobody cared enough to notice and make it better. _Luther_ didn’t care enough and without people around to help him, his brother found something that could and stuck with it.

For over fifteen years.

_(“You don’t understand,” Klaus’ red-rimmed eyes were cold and hungry, clutching his bag of pills close to his chest. “I need it.”_

_“You need to stop being so ungrateful,” Luther spat, frustrated over his brother’s stubbornness and how it would reflect on him to Dad, and stormed out. Leaving his little brother behind with what he needed more than his siblings: his drugs.)_

Letting his head fall into his hands, he fights back the stinging in his eyes. Dad had known—case in point being Vanya and her pills. Pills Klaus would’ve done everything for in their youth.

Come to think of it, as far as he knew, Klaus had never gone for what he believed to be his little sister’s anxiety medication. Despite his dependency and them so close within reach.

He’d stolen money, possessions and jewelry.

But not Vanya’s pills.

Christ, Luther really is an asshole, isn’t he?

“Absolutely not,” Five denies sharply, sneering, “We are no longer taking suggestions from _you_.” He resumes his pacing, running a hand through his hair, tugging at the ends of his strands.

He doesn’t ask if Pogo had known. About what Klaus’ powers truly meant for him.

Five never bothered asking questions he already knew the answers to.

Pogo falls silent.

“Would that be such a bad choice?” Luther asks, thinking of the shrieking hurting his ears, the sheer nausea threatening to turn his stomach upside down form the smell alone, and becomes the target of his brother’s glares. Taking in a deep, trembling breath, he steels himself, forces his gaze to meet their eyes on even ground.

“To block them out for a bit and give him the time he needs to recover peacefully?”

Diego falters at the reasoning, the instant need to argue crumbling away. Jaw clenching, his brother drops his gaze, struggling to make a choice he wouldn’t think twice over before.

Out of all of them, no one wants Klaus to be sober more than Diego does, except for Ben.

Oh god, _Ben_.

His presence deepened on Klaus’ state of mind. Could he willingly make the choice to choose between his brothers? They just got Ben back —

“It’s not your choice to make,” Five stops pacing and his line of thought, burning holes through the floor with his eyes. “Ben made that quite clear to me. Neither of them wants Klaus to fall back on drugs.”

“But—"

The vein in Five’s neck pulses, standing out starkly. “I’m telling you, attempt to put drugs near his face and I’ll break your hands.”

“Okay,” Luther says, holding up his hands and sharing a glance with Diego, who looks relieved the choice was taken out of his hands. Pushing his doubts out of mind, he leans back into his seat.

“No drugs, got it.”

Pogo doesn’t seem pleased, but if he’s got a problem with their decision, he wisely chooses to keep his mouth shut.

They fall into an uncomfortable silence afterwards. Full of Diego’s too long pauses between taking breaths and Five’s furious muttering to himself. Luther hears the clock tick by, slowly, taking the time to debate ringing Allison.

She would want to know what’s happening. Especially, if it turns out Five’s stream of concussion had been right.

_The second coming of the apocalypse._

He can picture how well that conversation would go. For all that he’s certain he’s got a special place in her heart, Klaus undoubtedly held the top spot in her ranking of favorite brothers.

Allison would drop everything, inform Vanya—something that wouldn’t go over well—and they’d pack up and come back in a heartbeat.

No.

He’ll tell her when it’s safe. When Klaus is healthier and no longer a risk to those around him and himself. Vanya should stay as far away as she could for now.

They’ve got everything under control.

She’ll be angry with him, but that’s okay. Luther can handle her disappointment. It’s not the first time she’s been cross with him and it probably won’t be the last time either.

Heels can be heard on the wood, heading down the stairs and their heads whip up to look at Grace when she walks in, face somber and smile absent from her face.

“I’m sorry,” she says and Luther’s heart drops to the bottom of his stomach, bile pushing up his throat at her tone. “But my efforts in nursing your brother back to health have been unsuccessful so far. His temperature is climbing at a dangerously high rate and his condition seems to grow worse. I would advise moving him to a hospital.”

For a beat, silence fills the room.

Even Luther knows the last place on earth Klaus would ever want to be is in a hospital. That threat worked wonders on Number Four in the early years of his addiction. One of the only times Klaus ever refused drugs were when Dad told him he could either bear the pain without the help of medication or suffer through a hospital visit.

Now, they knew why.

“No shit, he’s not getting better,” Diego rises from his seat, unable to sit still. He gestures around the room in agitation. “With all these assholes hanging around—hey!” He yells, scowling at nothing. “Leave my brother alone, you creeps. You’re all dead, so fucking move on you pieces of shits.”

“Way to go, moron,” Five not-smiles in a familiar way that’s all too terrifying, lips pulling back to reveal his sharp teeth. “Piss them off, why don’t you? I’m sure that’ll go down well with them. Tell those people you’ve killed you’re sorry and who knows, maybe that’ll make up for the fact you murdered them and they’ll stop haunting Klaus.”

Words hitting a nerve, Diego’s eyes glimmer in the low light of the living room, arm pulling back to throw the knife in his hands.

It curves at the last second, whizzing past Five’s ear to sink into the wall.

“That’s rich,” Diego snaps, “Coming from you. How high was your body count again?”

Seeing Five open his mouth to retort, Luther stands up as well, booming over their pointless fighting, head throbbing from all the stress.

“How about you stop going for each other’s throats and we come back to what we’re going to do about Klaus?”

He doesn’t want to think about the faces of the robbers he’s seen, their bones stuck at broken angles from throwing them too hard. If he does, he’s sure he’ll be sick, thinking back to how old he must’ve been then and how young Klaus was the first time they should’ve appeared to him.

Jesus Christ, what was Dad thinking?

“We’re not stuffing him into a place full of dying people,” Five sets his jaw, sounding incredulous over the sheer idiocy of such an idea. “How do you think that would go? Last time I checked hospitals aren’t a ghost free zone, dumbass.”

Diego nods in agreement, “They’d give him drugs or put him into the nuthouse.”

“Well, what else can we do?” Luther asks, frustratedly. “We can’t send him away with Mom to care for him. She wouldn’t know what to do, if the dead show up again.”

That would probably be for the best. Grace doesn’t have any ghosts clinging on to her and she knows how to treat fevers. She wouldn’t get hurt in case of another last second summoning. She’d be gentle and kind and compassionate, the healing hands of a mother, their brother would need.

But she couldn’t fight what her sensors don’t pick up. Would she be able to recognize dropping heat signatures hurting their brother? Before it’s too late and he becomes one of them?

No.

Luther refuses to put his brother at risk.

He might’ve been too prideful to admit to it back when they were children, where the thought of getting replaced by cheap pills and booze used to sting fiercer than Dad’s words of disapproval, but he can say it now.

They need each other. This time, family will have to come first.

“I’m not letting him out of my sight,” Diego says, resolutely. “Where he goes, I go. Mom taught me how to administer first aid and the likes—everything without involving a needle, really. I can take care of him.”

Grace nods, smiling sweetly. “That’s kind of you, sweetheart.”

“I won’t leave him alone until I’m sure we don’t have another apocalypse coming our way.”

Five’s voice books no arguments, daring them to refuse and part of Luther wants to, knowing that having him in close proximity to Klaus won’t make this any easier.

Frowning, he can’t help but ask, “Is that…can he actually cause the apocalypse?”

Four’s powers were never suited for combat. While he couldn’t have pictured small, quiet and gloomy Vanya ending the world before her powers made the foundation of the house start to shake, the image of skinny, clumsy Klaus doing so when Luther spent most of their early training years carrying him back to his room because his stamina was shit and his legs felt like “overcooked spaghetti noodles”, seemed even more outrageous to his mind.

Klaus wasn’t like Vanya, whose temper reflected in her icy eyes whenever her stony rage would gleam through. Anger Luther knows is deserved.

Picturing their brother in their sister’s place doesn’t work. Maybe, it’s because Luther can’t remember the last time he’s seen Klaus angry instead of laughing and joking around, brushing jabs and insults off like he wasn’t paying attention to what was being said to him in the first place.

Disappointment, annoyance and apathy, he could see in Klaus’ eyes. Hot-red rage and a thirst for revenge were too foreign in the range of his brother’s mood swings for Luther to tell what that would look like.

He tells Five as much. “What would that even look like?”

“Geez, I don’t fucking know, Luther,” Five turns wild, furious eyes onto him, sarcasm coating every word. “How about summoning the walk of the dead? A hoard of unkillable zombies tearing into the living seems suitable for the end of the world.”

Diego winces and Luther averts his eyes to his shoes, heart hammering in his chest as he tries to imagine what those ghosts could do on a world-wide scale. The consequences would be disastrous. People would be in danger—innocent kids and citizens—of being killed by the dead and the worst part is, Luther isn’t sure if they could _win_ if it came to that.

People die every day. How many of those move on? How many of them are kind, good people that deserve their eternal peace and what about the rest? Murderers, robbers, criminals without conscience like sexual offenders and rapists. Are they simply stuck on earth with nowhere to go, ignored by _everyone_ —

Horror flows through Luther’s veins when he realizes he doesn’t know. Those are questions he never bothered to ask and doesn’t want to know the answers to, when he thinks about how Klaus would know.

_(“Why don’t we just open the door and ask Vanya?”)_

Maybe, he should have.

“Don’t make it sound like it’s his fault,” Diego snaps him out of his stupor with his raised voice. “He’s no more to blame than Vanya is.”

Five drags his hands down his face. “I’m just saying if he’d learned how to control his powers when we were kids instead of blocking them out with his drugs, then maybe we wouldn’t be in this shitty situation right now.”

“Can you blame him?” Diego demands, heatedly, hands curled into fists. He takes an impulsive step towards Five, muscles tense and ready for a fight. “Seeing what he does, all that gore and blood. Listening to the screams of people begging him for help or telling him they wish him d-dead.” Looking sick, Diego grits his teeth. “What do you think that does to a kid’s mind, Five? Remember all the nightmares he had as a kid? Or what Dad’s solution was? The bastard soundproofed his room because he didn’t care and guess what? _Neither did_ _we_.”

It’s true. Luther can feel the shame burn in his chest. They’d let him roll blunts at the table, not bothering to speak up when Reginald didn’t comment. Letting him sneak alcohol away from Reginald’s bar became an association to typical Klaus behavior, just another silly antic of their eccentric brother that insisted on living up to be the family disappointment. Instead of making assumptions they should’ve tried to offer their help beyond quick fixes and open disgust over his addiction.

Even if Klaus didn’t want their help—how could he when their solutions went into fixing their reputation rather than solving his problems? —Luther shouldn’t have given up on him.

Family doesn’t forget about each other the moment they turn into an inconvenience. Hell, Luther hadn’t known Klaus managed to get clean until Mom could vouch for Diego’s claim. All these years spent thinking Klaus willingly threw himself over the cliff and it turns out Luther was the one to let him fall when he should've caught him.

_(“It is your job as Number One to ensure your siblings’ safety through any means necessary. A team cannot flourish without a leader to guide them when times are tough. Loyalty is a formidable trait, Number One, so make sure to inspire it in your brothers and sisters.”)_

“I’m not blaming anyone except for Dad,” Five says, flatly and it’s a relief to hear. “What ifs are pointless. Klaus needs help in controlling his powers which hopefully won’t end up causing doomsday, if I have anything to say about it. Judging from how he’s attempting to stay sober he’s actually motivated to learn nowadays which makes this easier for me in the long run.”

“We can’t let him end the world,” Luther nods, because that much he knows. “I doubt he actually wants to do that. Our priority should be bringing his fever back down, so when his powers run wild, he won’t accidentally turn a crowd of ghosts’ tangible. Now, where do we take him to if not to a hospital?”

Focus on the plan. Baby steps. Don’t think about the bigger picture, but look at what’s in front of him that he can help with. Luther can do this. It’s not like he’s doing it alone this time.

“We?” Five raises an eyebrow, glancing at him in disbelief.

“Yes, _we_.” Luther says, daring Five to refute him. “I’m going with you. Between the three of us—”

“Four,” Diego interrupts, a frown on his face. “Don’t forget Ben, man.”

“—four of us,” Luther corrects, clearing his throat. “There should always be a person who can stay with him should the other two get tired or if we need to do a supply run. I know he probably doesn’t want me going with you, but you need someone to carry him and I want to go. I want to help.”

More than anything, Luther never wanted to be the bad guy. Keeping the world and his family safe shouldn’t be two different goals.

Five scrutinizes him, looking for something Luther hopes he’ll find. Him coming along isn’t up for debate, however, convincing Five to change his mind once he made it up isn’t something, they’ve got time for.

“Step one toe out of line,” Five says, slowly, eyes never leaving Luther’s. “And I swear to you I’ll jump you to the other side of the world and leave you there to find your way back by yourself.”

Diego glares as if to enforce Five’s claim, brushing his fingers over his knife harness threateningly.

Luther nods grimly. “That's fair.”

“Fine,” Five sighs, turning to Mom. “We need a list of instructions on what to do should his fever spike too high and what else we can do to lower it naturally.”

Diego protests, “I told you I know —”

“I heard you,” Five cuts him off with a dismissive wave of his hand. “No offense, but I’d rather trust Mom’s judgment than your faulty memory when it comes to preventing another apocalypse and someone’s health.”

“Full offense taken.”

“I don’t care,” Five points at Diego. “Go and fetch us some clothes. Yours will do for Klaus and make sure you pick up some of Luther’s and mine. This could take a few days.”

Diego scowls, not liking to be bossed around, but heads towards the stairs, grumbling uncomplimentary things about Five’s ego under his breath.

Ignoring Diego, Five turns back to Luther. “We’ll take the car. I’ll get everything else we need. You go and get Klaus. Be careful and don’t be too rough. We’ll meet at the car in a few minutes.”

It takes a second too long before Five vanishes from his sight, palms slow in warming up to their power—a sign of his brother’s exhaustion Luther wisely doesn’t comment on.

Finding himself alone with Pogo in the living room, Luther turns to head towards the stairs, if it weren't for Pogo calling out to him and forcing him to stop.

“Master Luther.”

Hackles raising at the grim tone, Luther turns back to see Pogo's weary face.

“I would advise against waking Master Klaus in the dead of the night,” Pogo warns, “Best to let him rest and wake up on his own once you children are away from the house. Trust me, he won’t take kindly to seeing you in his room at this hour.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Luther asks, distrustfully.

Pogo's lips purse into a tight, pained line. “I fear that's not my place to tell.”

There's no explanation forthcoming as Pogo stays silent, looking at him with guilt, his hand on the cane tight enough to be bruising. Uneasy about the alarm bells beginning to ring in his mind, Luther frowns.

Because the last time Pogo wore such a face, Luther opened the letters he'd painfully written over the course of four years, pouring his heart into each letter, untouched and forgotten under the floorboards of a dusty office.

What other secrets were left in the dark, shoved under the rug bearing Reginald Hargreeves' name, they weren't supposed to know about?

“I'm not going to let him think he's being kidnapped,” Luther pulls a face. “Chances are he'll wake up and try to gouge my eyes out. He’s always been one to fight dirty.”

That's what they've been trained to do and old habits were hard to shake. Having seen his brother's nails, he's not about to risk losing an eye over a jump scare. Giving Pogo a last opportunity to elaborate on the subject, he's disappointed when all he gets in return is a pinched look and harsh silence.

Turning around, Luther heads up to Klaus' room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you guess what's going to happen next~?


	5. Don't Wake The Dead If You Don't Wanna End Up In A Crypt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luther should've listened to Pogo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might be a little bit tipsy right now, but I hope the chapter is enjoyable! Happy holidays everyone and I hope the new year will treat you all right <3

Eyes sluggishly fluttering half-open, Klaus wakes to dimmed lights and the frantic muttering of voices in his ears. Staring at his ceiling, blinking a few times to clear the fuzzy dots in his vision, he lets out a slow, raspy sigh, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

Jesus, how much did he drink last night? He can't recall what he took, a few happy pills for sure, he guesses, so whatever it was must have been good shit considering the hangover he's suffering at the moment. His head hurts and with his bed swaying like a rocky boat underneath him, he's surprised to have made it back to his room in this state.

Too bad he forgot to close the window after sneaking back inside, because he's freezing his balls off and the thought of getting up to close it makes him reconsider his priorities. Maybe a bucket would be better. Puking over himself would ruin his clothes.

Attempting to get up proves to be a bad idea. Swallowing past the odd taste in his mouth, he lies back down, distantly aware of the eyes on him.

Ghosts are always nosier during the night for some reason, but he’s learned how to tune them out as best as he could. Let them be a thunderstorm roaring in the distance outside the house. As long as the lightning doesn’t strike him down, he doesn’t give a damn.

Better not to test the fragile truce between his stomach and himself, Klaus decides and shuts his eyes. Another few hours of sleep to get back on top of his game sound like the perfect cure. Hand flopping back down to his side, Klaus stuffs it back under his blankets and tries to go back to sleep.

Until he hears the sound of heavy footsteps drawing near outside in the hall.

Choking on his next breath, Klaus' eyes snap open and he tries his hardest to muffle his coughing into his pillow. His handwriting greets him, so familiar he can hear the haunting echo of the ghosts whispering into the shell of his ear, compelling him to write. Over and over and over, he skims the words craved into his wall that crawl up to the ceiling, feeling his chest tighten with fear.

_WHY. MUST. I. GO._

Back to that place.

_It makes me feel dark + small._

Heart pounding in his chest, Klaus lies painfully still. Not moving a muscle in fear of catching the attention of the owner of those steps. If he’s lucky, those steps will pass his room and leave him alone. Squeezing his eyes shut, he forces his labored breathes to smooth out.

_It’s okay. I’m okay,_ he can almost hear the words being whispered to him over the blood rushing in his ears – another lie he tells himself, _Everything’s fine._

Shivering, Klaus strains his ears to pick out the creak of the wood, swallowing the excessive saliva building in his mouth back down. Nausea hits him like a cramp and he stifles a whimper, hating how his sheets feel draped over his skin.

Too heavy and sticky. Far too constricting. Shifting around, he freezes when the wood groans.

Someone is at his door.

_No,_ Klaus thinks miserably, breaking out in cold sweat, _Go away._

Instead of moving away, the steps approach his bed without delay and Klaus’ skin crawls, his half-breaths stuttering in his lungs. Hands twisting in the sheets, he doesn’t dare open his eyes. Willing himself not to react, he feigns to be asleep.

Klaus isn’t going anywhere. Not like this, with bruises throbbing along his arms and legs and the stinging in his limbs like he got his ass handed to him during training. Screw the consequences.

Someone places a hand on his shoulder, shaking him.

“No,” he moans, rolling away from the touch and curling into himself. “Go away. Just leave me alone.”

The hand on his shoulder tightens.

“Klaus,” someone says—probably one of the ghosts—voice pleading. “Come on.”

Shaking his head stubbornly when the hand tries to roll him back over, he tries to hide by burying himself deeper into his blanket nest.

“No. I don’t wanna go with you. Get the hell out of my room. Working hours are closed.”

Cracking his eyes open when the hand leaves his shoulder, relaxing slightly, he risks a peek over his shoulder. A blurry form towers over him, board shoulders standing out against the shapes lingering behind their back, seemingly swallowed by the man’s size.

With a ruck his sheets are pulled off him, cold air hitting his skin like icy water. Flinching, Klaus cowers away from the figure with a low whine.

“We need to go,” the man says, exasperated but firm. Obviously, not taking no for an answer, he plows on, “I’m going to pick you up now and bring you downstairs to the car. Don’t be difficult. This is for your own good.”

“No, no, no…” Klaus starts struggling when hands slide under his knees and lower back and hoist him into the air with no effort. Kicking out and flailing, his hand hits its mark, smacking against flesh, causing curses to fill the air. Getting dropped back on the bed, he hits the mattress with a yelp, backpedaling across the bed as fast as his wiry, uncooperative limbs will allow.

Away from Reginald and the promise of another night in the mausoleum.

“Klaus!” barks out a voice, causing him to flinch.

“Fuck you.” Klaus hastily gropes for his pillow, hurling it at the man, frantically glancing around for something else to throw. To buy him a little more time. “I’m not going—you can’t make me!”

He doesn’t want to go. He never wants to go. Back to that cold, damp hell on earth. With the dust filling his lungs and where the sun doesn’t shine.

He won’t go back. He _can’t_ go back.

Someday the blood in his veins will freeze, his skin will cool and he’ll drown in the desperate cries for his attention after Dad left him to the dead. Forgotten in the rubble. Nowhere to go and stuck in the dark forever.

He’ll become one of the ghosts and the thought terrifies him.

Whatever punishment Reginald could think of for Klaus’ disobedience, he’d take it over a minute in the mausoleum.

“We don’t have time for this.”

Every minute spent fighting is one less locked away.

Slapping the hands reaching for him away, he presses himself against the headboard of his bed, baring his teeth. A cough builds up in his lungs and Klaus smooths down a hand over his chest, gasping for breath when it bursts out of his lungs, dry and painful.

Fingers grip onto his shoulder.

Klaus harshly knocks the hand away. “Don’t touch me!”

“Alright, that’s enough.” A hand grabs onto his arm, tugging him forward with one strong pull. Heart leaping to his throat, Klaus gasps when he’s thrown over a shoulder in one swift movement, the room rolling upside down.

Hanging limply for a moment, trying to quell the wave of nausea washing over him, he starts squirming as soon as the view of his bed swings into sight and he gets carried out the door. Attempting to kick out proves to be useless, the arm balancing to keep him on the shoulder of his kidnapper pinning them to Reginald’s chest.

Klaus tries to hold onto the door frame, nails scratching along the wood, unable to get a good grip to cling on.

With every step further away down the hall, Klaus can feel his heart sink inch for inch in his chest. Wiggling and struggling in the hopes of being let go does nothing. Slamming his fists onto the man’s back, scratching and pinching doesn’t seem to slow the man down at all. Reginald doesn’t budge and his room moves further and further away from his reach.

There’s no getting out of this one.

The realization slams into him as they move down the stairs steadily, knocking the breath straight out of his lungs. He’ll have to go back. Back to—

_—the cold air scorching his skin. Muscles frozen stiff like the tears on his cheeks. He can’t feel his fingers or toes anymore, rocking back and forth in his corner, head hidden between his bloodied knees._

_The blood over his fingertips and knuckles has dried, chipping away whenever he tries to breath warmth into his palms, rubbing harshly over pale pink flesh. His eyes, when fluttering open, are stuck somewhere in the dark where the door is supposed to be._

_He doesn’t remember how long it’s been since the door fell shut. He lost count. Between craving lines into the floor, counting the cracks along the walls, keeping track of the seconds felt maddening among the dripping of blood to stone. A waste of time to keep track of something he doesn’t have._

_Time means nothing to the dead and that’s what he is, isn’t he?_

_Dad won’t come back. This time he’ll have to stay for good among the ghosts pulling at his clothes, boxing him in from all sides. He’s one of them. Dead eyed, pale-skinned echoes that won’t be missed, silenced no matter how loud they howled to be heard._

_He’s going to die in here, Klaus’ lips quiver on a sob, and he shrinks into himself, his lungs burning from the dust in the air and the hands reaching into his chest to suffocate him with their tight, desperate grips._

_He’s going to die and nobody will care to notice he’s gone._

Someone is screaming. It’s a horrific sound, awful and gutting and full of fear. It’s the kind of scream a ghost makes when they realize they’re dead, their carefully fabricated delusion shatters like a bullet through glass, and they see the blood covering themselves and remember the pain.

His throat hurts.

Klaus can’t figure out why.

A flash of blue catches his attention. Craning his head up to see the cause, relief nearly makes him burst into tears.

Five’s alarmed face is staring at him from the top of the stairs.

“What the hell is going on here?” Five demands to know, looking ready to murder, but unsure over who.

Klaus is all too happy to point him into the right direction.

“Five,” he croaks out, making grabby hands at his brother. “Fivey, don’t let him take me away.”

There’s no doubt in his mind Five won’t let that happen. He’s just caught Dad dragging him away in the middle of the night and from what he knows from their law lessons, that’s illegal. Five hates being kept out of the loop almost as much as he hates Dad.

Five will help him.

“Please,” He’s not above shameless begging and groveling, though he’s got a feeling Five is more receptive than Reginald would ever be, considering how his face softens. Five cares, even if only a little bit. It’s more than he ever got from Reginald. “Please, help me. I don’t want to go with him. He’s going to…he’s going to take me to—"

“Klaus,” Five cuts him off, walking down the steps in a hurry. He’s not wearing the baby blue PJ’s like he should, if Dad finds a reason to punish him for it, he doesn’t call him out on dress-code violations right now. “You need to calm down.”

“ _You_ need to help me,” Klaus shots back shrilly. “Why are you just standing there? Get a move on! He’s not about to take me out on a stroll like a dog. Get him away from me pronto please—”

Five frames his face with his hands, jerking his head down to meet his gaze.

“Calm down, take a deep breath,” Five instructs him to do and Klaus instinctively follows his orders, becoming aware of how much his lungs were burning. His vision gets clearer, the dizziness fading and letting him breath shakily as he grips onto his brother’s hands, squeezing them.

“Good.”

A thumb absentmindedly strokes over his cheek when Five turns to look around him, clicking his tongue.

“Now, how did you manage to fuck up step one, Luther? It was a simple task.”

Klaus blinks blearily. _Luther_? He mouths to himself wordlessly.

“I don’t know,” Reginald’s voice sounds strange to his ears. Genuinely sorry and frazzled were foreign concepts to the biggest prick in existence. “I went to get him and he flipped out on me. I guess, he mistook me for a ghost or something.”

Five looks deeply unimpressed. “And your way of dealing with that is to drag him out of bed by force?”

“He wouldn’t calm down,” _Luther_ says, somewhere right behind him and that sounds about right. Defensively shoving the blame onto others to justify himself while maintaining his self-righteousness is Luther’s to go to move when things go wrong. Dad never bothered to explain himself.

“I didn’t know what else to do. You said to get him out as fast as possible and I thought he’d calm down once he was in the car.”

Five lets out an annoyed sigh. “I also explicitly told you to be _careful_.” When no reply comes, he scowls, eyes rolling towards the ceiling like he’s praying for patience and finds none.

“Luther?” Klaus asks, confused, taking his chance to get a little clarification on what the hell is going on because nothing is making sense. Why would Luther be the one to drag him out of his room? Shouldn’t that be Reggie’s job, or Pogo’s?

“That’s right,” Five pats his cheek, focusing on him. In the dim-light of the entrance hall the bruises around his eyes stand out starkly, the plaster covering his cheekbone looks fresh. “The one who’s playing the part of your kidnapper and dragging your ass around is no one else than our Number One. Not whoever else you thought he was.”

That would explain a lot. Reginald would never let him blow up such a fuss. Nor would he have wasted a single breath in reprimanding Five and sending him back to bed with the threat of no breakfast, lunch and dinner the next day. Still, the clarification is nice, especially coming from Five.

Must be his one good act of the year.

Fight draining out of him, Klaus frowns, disoriented by the sudden rearranging of the situation. If Five’s feeling charitable, he’ll have to test his luck to get some answers and milk it for all that’s worth.

“Why?”

“You’re sick,” Five states like a matter of fact, pulling his hands away. “Luther’s going to take you to the car and then you’ll go somewhere you can get better.”

_(“Dad told us you were sick,” Three mumbles from where she’s sitting cross-legged on his bed, peering at him with worried eyes. “Are you better now? You still look sick.”_

_Four, who came back from special training the same morning, offers a shrug and buries himself deeper into his blankets. Ten hours in the cold with the dead will do that to you, he chokes back a sob.)_

“No, no, no…” Klaus shakes his head wildly, the chill crawling up his spine. “I’m not sick.”

“You’ve got a bad fever,” Five says, wiping his hand on his blazer. “I can feel your sweat on my palm. Your voice is ruined, so you’ve got a sore throat on top of that cough I heard from two rooms away and I bet you fifty bucks that you’ve got a headache too.”

Klaus’ clammy hands twist Luther’s coat. “I want to stay here.”

“Absolutely not,” Five denies, stone-faced. “You can’t stay here. Luther will get you to the car and buckle you in.” Having said his piece, Five turns to leave.

Panic blind-siding him, Klaus starts struggling in earnest again, tears stinging his eyes.

Of course, Number One, Daddy’s Golden Boy would do his dirty work. He’s going to shove him into the car and then Reginald would drive him towards that cemetery four blocks away from home, hiding behind another excuse to explain his absence away.

Not this time, he swears viciously.

Klaus won’t roll over and take the blame.

“What happened?” Another voice pipes up somewhere near the stairs, sounding out of breath. “I heard screaming.”

Five pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s hoping to avoid a headache.

“Did you pack his things?”

“Yeah, yeah. Now back up a minute and tell me what I missed. Why did he—”

“Put me down, Luther!” Klaus buckles, slamming his fist onto Luther’s back when he starts walking to the front door. “I swear to the little girl riding her bike along the clouds, if you don’t let go off me in the next five seconds, I’ll pull a Mike Tyson. Fancy losing an ear? It's not like you need them, because you're not _listening_ to a word I say, muscles for brains.”

“You’re speaking nonsense, Klaus,” Luther mutters without batting an eye. He doesn’t slow down, doesn’t even falter at the threat—Klaus has bitten people for _less_ and it sends his heartbeat into overdrive, makes the buzzing in his ears grow undeniably louder like a swarm of bees flying circles around his head.

Whatever Daddy must have told him, Luther isn’t going to stop and listen to the reasons why he doesn’t want to go—why he’s so afraid he can feel his chest grow tight and start to ache, the lights begin to dim and flicker.

What he has to say doesn’t matter. They wouldn’t believe him. Dramatics, Dad would say scornfully and Luther, ever the goody-two shoes little soldier boy would nod and agree.

Well, fuck him _and_ Dad. Klaus is going nowhere. If Reggie is so desperate, he’ll have to do the honor himself and drag him out the door kicking and screaming by the hair while his siblings watch the show, they were so keen to unsubscribe.

“You’re not Dad, Luther, you can’t lock me up!”

His shout makes Luther stop like he finally realizes that fact. The arm around his waist tightens, causing him to wince and in his on-going struggle, he misses the sound of a bag slipping through slack fingers, falling to the floor with a heavy thud from upstairs.

Someone chokes out a “What?” which Klaus ignores, too fired-up to notice the sudden hush falling over the room.

“Put me down!”

Luther stands dumbstruck in the middle of the foyer, frozen in shock. “What?”

“Get your hands off of me! Tell that Bastard if he wants to talk to his entourage of murder victims, he can speak to them himself.”

Let’s see how he’d like that. Knowing Reginald, the man wouldn’t give a fuck about the hoard of murderous ghosts calling for his blood beyond a brief dismissive, unamused glance and the chance to mock him about his fear of his powers.

Klaus doesn’t give a shit about him either.

Dad can drop dead and Klaus would be overjoyed until he came back to haunt him as a ghost as long as it meant he can kiss the mausoleum goodbye.

“You can’t lock me up in there.” Klaus’ voice grows hysterical. “Not again.”

“I’m not going to lock you up, Klaus,” Luther says, horrified, “Nobody is locking anyone up, okay?”

See, Klaus would love to believe that, but statics don't lie, as Five would say, and he can recall Vanya's tear-stained face behind a glass door, begging to be let out and Luther being the one to put her inside, refusing to let her leave.

Like Papa, like son.

“That's not what you said about Vanya.”

Luther flinches like he got slapped.

The sharp sound of steel hitting wood breaks the tension. Klaus' head snaps towards the noise, Luther turning around and stealing some of his sight as he's facing the door now, much to his frustration, trying to block out the ghosts hovering within his vision.

Like hell he’d leave the house while sobering up.

“Enough of this ruckus,” Pogo scolds and at the sound of his voice, something in Klaus grows cold and bitter. “It's late and I believe you children wanted to leave as soon as possible. What's holding you up?”

Hearing none of his brothers speak up, Klaus stops scratching on Luther's back, sweaty and tired over not being heard, he barks out a harsh disbelieving laugh that chills the room.

“I'm not going anywhere, so you can all fuck off. I'll stay right here, in my room _in the house_ and I don't care what you say or what Dad thinks. I'm not going — consent matters and I say no. I don't want to go, I won't. I won’t go back. Tell the asshole I’m _quitting_.”

“Go where?” Five asks roughly, outside of his line of sight, only to get shushed by Pogo.

Panting for breath after his outburst, Klaus glares defiantly, fists balled into Luther’s coat as Pogo steps into view, blurry from tears. 

He doesn't beg with his eyes, _don't make me go, please, he's hurting me, make him stop_. Because he knows from experience it's no use to ask Pogo for protection when he knows what Dad does to them and lets it keep happening no matter how loud he cries.

Compared to Reggie, they don't matter in Pogo's eyes, who thinks the man can do no wrong. That what they have to endure is deserved—for the greater good. What good is it to make them suffer?

It's bullshit, is what it is. A worthless, half-assed _excuse_.

Pogo peers up at him for a beat, eyes unreadable. Klaus stares back. Breaking eye-contact, it's Pogo who averts his gaze first, before he speaks quietly,

“There will be no trips to the mausoleum tonight, Master Klaus.”

Pain appears to deepen the wrinkles around Pogo’s eyes and mouth and Klaus would’ve asked what that sad face was all about when the news was good, the best he's had in _years_ even, but he gets dropped to the floor. _Finally_.

Wheezing and out of breath, Klaus groans into the cool tiles, the coiled pit of ice in his chest melting into a lukewarm puddle.

“Luther!” shouts a voice, reprimanding in its tone and not a second later there’s a large hand on his back, apologies spilling out as it rolls him over and pulls him up into a seating position, letting him slump against the warmth holding him up.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Luther’s words spin around him. “I was shocked, okay?”

Diego’s furious voice washes over him. “So, you drop him? Face down?”

“It was an accident!”

“Give him here.”

There’s a second pair of hands, cupping his cheek and tilting his face towards them.

“Hey, man, you’re good?”

“No,” Klaus moans. “My face hurts.”

Diego’s blurry face swims into view. “That’s because you fell on it,” he says, distraught. “Let me see.” Fingers brush gently over his cheekbone, making him wince because _ow_. Falling on his face hurts, who would've thought?

“You're too hot,” Diego mumbles worriedly, pressing his cold palm against his forehead.

Leaning into the touch, Klaus slurs, “You're not so bad yourself, I guess. Solid seven out of ten if you ditch the leather.”

“That's not...” Diego trails off, sharing a look over his head with Luther. “Never mind, thanks, man. Let's get you back onto your feet, okay?”

Somewhere off to his right, he can hear Five throwing a fit, sounding absolutely livid. Clinging onto Diego's jacket sleeves, he lets himself be pulled up, stumbling forward into Diego's chest. Arms wrap around his waist, taking the brunt of his weight with a grunt, Diego essentially gives Klaus his permission to use him as an upgraded armrest he takes full advantage of. Chin resting on Diego's shoulder, cheek pressed against the cold leather, he sees Five snarling into Pogo’s face, his hand twisted into Pogo’s sweater, and he looks ready to shake their old teacher until his neck snaps.

“Training?” Five's eyes flash like lightning, his voice booms like thunder, complementing the stormy expression on his face into the force of nature he was born to be and somehow along the way Klaus must have zoned out to miss whatever managed to piss his brother off to the point of getting ready to throw hands with _Pogo_ of all people.

“What you're describing is _torture_.”

“I assure you, Master Five, your Father— “

“—can consider himself lucky to be dead.” Five hisses, merciless. “Otherwise, I would've done the job myself and given him the hell he deserves to rot in for his crimes.”

Right. Klaus feels like smacking himself. Daddy's kicked the bucket; how could he have forgotten that wonderful detail? He can faintly remember yelling at Reggie's ashes and partying at his funeral, knocking back pills and washing them down with alcohol in manic glee.

Hopefully the asshole's not hanging around.

On second thought, getting out of the murder house might be a good idea. Klaus just needs to check his boxes.

Tugging at Diego's jacket, successfully interrupting his and Luther's attempt of holding a quiet conversation, he waits until he hears the answering hum before blurting out, “You're coming too, right?”

“Of course,” Diego says like staying here without Klaus didn't cross his mind. “Me, Five, Ben and Luther are gonna take care of you for a while, okay? Just us. Isn't that right, Five?” he raises his voice sharply halfway through his sentence, catching Five's attention.

“ _What_?”

“You're coming with us,” Diego states and Five nods, taking a beat too long to release Pogo's sweater, shoving him back and smoothing his hands down his jacket before stuffing them into his pockets in a visible show of reeling in his temper.

“Someone needs to be the adult supervision and make sure you idiots don't end up causing the —” Five inhales sharply, glances at him and awkwardly changes his answer. “— in jail. So, you don't end up in jail. Allison told me it was a close call last time, Diego.”

“Fuck you,” is Number Two's response.

“Yeah, let's not do that,” Klaus mumbles into Diego's neck. “Once was bad enough. Jail is no fun. Looots of tight spaces, bullies and no drugs.”

Five narrows his eyes, his face starts to turn a little red. “Do these bullies have names?”

“Didn't ask,” Klaus answers, “Turns out assholes don't pick on the guy that can talk to their victims. Makes them all self-conscious to know they hang around to air their dirty laundry to me.” He huffs out a laugh that turns into a cough, curling into Diego, who attempts to rub his back without dropping him.

“Right,” Five nods, sharply. “We'll unpack that another day.” He walks out of Klaus' sight, giving Diego a signal to move, because his brother suddenly lifts him off his feet and walks them to the door.

“Wait,” Klaus squirms and Diego halts, which is why he's one of his favorites. “Are you taking me to hospital?”

“No,” Diego answers to Klaus' relief.

“Rehab?”

“You're clean.”

That would explain why he felt like shit and why the ghosts were so loud.

“Okay...” Klaus taps Diego's shoulder. “Carry on.”

Diego carries him to the car, careful not to jostle him too much. When he makes a move to get into the back with him, Five elbows him in the side and growls something Klaus doesn't catch with the exhaustion wearing him down now that the adrenaline is gone.

“Hey, buddy,” Diego cups his cheek, startling him back into awareness. “Five's gonna sit with you while I drive, so if you need to puke let him know and I'll pull over.”

Klaus hums, fighting to keep his eyes open, and pulls his legs up to his chest, shivering.

“Where are we going?”

“Somewhere.”

Klaus tuts, tiredly. “Some _one's_ dodging the question.”

Diego's eyes shift away from him guiltily while he buckles him in. “It's a surprise.”

Even with his mind fuzzy, his head lolling forward and his eyes close to dropping shut, he knows Diego's lying. He's a bad liar on a good day and looking at him, pale-faced with shadows under his eyes and stress seemingly having aged him ten years, the day he's been having must have been shit.

Fortunately for Diego, he's saved from explaining himself by Luther's arrival, who loads two bags into the trunk, slamming the back door shut with enough force to make the car rock slightly. Five blinks onto the seat next to Klaus, not bothering to put on a seatbelt, sitting close enough their legs are pressed against each other’s and reaches out to tug him down by the arm. Klaus goes willingly, letting his head fall onto Five’s, slumping against his brother with a wounded noise of protest while Diego goes to sit in the driver’s seat and Luther opens the door to his right, letting in a gust of cold air that makes Klaus want to kick him in the face.

“Up front, you moron,” Five says. “There’s no way you’re gonna fit into the back with us.”

“But—”

“Ben has to sit somewhere too. Shouldn’t it be with the brother who can see him? Up front you go.”

_“Thanks,”_ the figure in black says as he materializes next to Klaus and Luther shuts the door with a little too much force, moving to squeeze himself in the passenger seat.

_“At least someone acknowledges my existence.”_

There’s no heat to Ben’s words, much to Klaus’ surprise. If anything, his brother looks incredibly stressed, arms crossed tightly over his stomach, dark eyes pinned to the back of Luther’s seat.

Wanting to cringe away from the cold, Klaus resists the urge, reaching out to poke Ben’s tense shoulder.

Ben’s gaze glides to him faster than he can blink when his hand pushes through his jacket, leaving wisps of blue smoke rising into the air. Invisible to anyone, expect for Klaus.

_“Took you long enough to notice me.”_

“Go suck on a lemon,” Klaus lets his arm fall back to his side, flexing his fingers to get rid of the chill sticking to his hand like glue.

Diego pauses in fumbling for the right key to turn around. “What?”

“He’s not talking to you,” Five kicks Diego’s seat to get him to turn back around, causing him to jolt forward. “Ben would be the obvious choice, do try to keep up.”

“Can you not?” Diego snaps, gruffly. “My car, my rules. And rule number one is to keep your dirty feet to yourself.”

Five scoffs, “Or what? You think you can threaten me, Diego? Your little pocket knives aren’t gonna do shit when your target disappears.”

“Oh, yeah? My aim never fails me no matter how tired I get. How are your jumps working out for you?”

_“How are you feeling?”_

Ben draws Klaus’ attention away, observing him with pensive eyes.

“Like shit.”

His throat feels like he’s spent the whole day deep-throating a dick made out of sandpaper, he can’t muster the energy to lift his head because everything is sore in a not fun way that aches down to his bones and the jury’s still out on whether he’ll have to call in on the warning and get Diego to pull over before he throws up over his lap and Five’s.

_“I guessed as much,”_ Ben doesn’t look pleased about being right for once. Weird, he actually looks concerned. Klaus must be dying. _“But you’ll be okay. Just try to cool down.”_

Any cooler and he’ll turn into a popsicle. Talk about unhelpful advice.

Klaus hums, wraps his arms around his legs and curls into himself.

Ben’s stare lingers for a moment before he turns back to glaring at the back of Luther’s seat and Diego starts the car, pulling out of the driveway.

Driving away from the house makes everything quieter and Klaus has to put in twice the effort to stay awake, Five’s offer to use him as a pillow not helping. He can feel himself slipping away between the bumps in the road Diego rocks over with the car, hearing Five reprimands to drive slower through cotton-filled ears.

But Klaus can’t fall asleep.

Not in the dim-light of the car that could take him anywhere. Car rides always make him uneasy thanks to being dear old Dad’s preferred way of transport and their lead role in kidnappings. Trunk or not, they’re far too stuffy to stretch his legs and Klaus feels trapped. This whole surprise party get-away feels like a trick.

A bad joke his brothers are playing on him, shoving him into a car and taking him somewhere they won’t tell him about in advance. Just like Dad did all those years ago, when Klaus trusted him, young and naïve and foolishly excited over special training that turned out to be worse than any punishment.

What if they were sick of him and trying to send him away? Diego tried that once, to shove him into a rehab center, deaf to Klaus’ furious flailing in the backseat and his shouts of cursing. _It’s for your own good_ , Diego claimed and something in Klaus’ chest had broken that day and he no longer allowed Diego to give him a ride unless he gave him directions on where to drop him off.

And Klaus _gets_ it, really, he knows he’s a handful and most people wouldn’t put up with half the shit he does daily.

But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt to be tossed away, to be made someone else’s problem. Because it fucking feels like getting stabbed and being left to bleed out alone in the cold by people he thought were going in for a hug.

“Klaus…” Five mutters, shifting against him and Klaus expects him to move away. “Go to sleep.”

He doesn’t push him off.

“Not tired,” Klaus lies, swallowing painfully, seeing Ben side-eye him with a scowl full of judgment.

“Don’t be a child.”

“Says _you_.”

Five makes a disgruntled noise while Diego snorts from the driver’s seat. “He’s got you there.”

“Nobody asked for your unwanted opinion,” Five retorts. “Keep your eyes up front and don’t crash the car.”

Diego’s reply is to reach up and switch on the dome light inside their car.

While thankful for the lack of shadows creeping up on him, Klaus recoils, squeezing his eyes shut in the hopes of blocking out the headache inducing brightness.

“Too bright?” Luther asks, hitting the nail on the head. “Do you want to turn it off—”

“No,” Klaus says, a little too quickly to not sound panicked, eyes still closed. “That’s like the opposite of what I want, so leave the light alone. Capeesh?”

For once, Luther gives in with a simple, stiff, one-word answer. “Okay.”

Klaus gives him a sluggish thumbs up.

An arm worms its way behind his back, holding him loosely and he sinks into the warmth like it’s quick sand pulling him in. Five draws circles with his thumb along Klaus’ shoulder blade and someone, either Luther or Diego, turns on the radio, filling the previous suffocating silence with the lovely sounds of a woman’s hauntingly soft voice.

In the end, Klaus stands no chance.

He falls asleep and hopes he won’t wake up in a rehab facility.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Luther: My panic reaction is to kidnap people.  
> Five: You had one fucking job!  
> Ben, in the background: Oh my god, you can't just kidnap your feverish, traumatized brother in the middle of the night without dragging said trauma to the surface! We're doomed.   
> Diego: If my arms weren't full right now I would be throwing knives like confetti.
> 
> If anyone's curious, I was listening to Billie Eilish's song "Lovely" while writing the car scene.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm looking forward to reading your thoughts on my work as usual!
> 
> For once, this is purely self-indulgent :D I just wanted to write the Hargreeves Bros bonding.


End file.
